Endless Possibilities
by TrixTheFlowery
Summary: El'una Lavellan picks up the remnants of a life that was as she simultaneously commits to her efforts to preserve life in favour of destroying it. The beauty of free will is that it is as dangerous as it is liberating: She is willing to test the boundaries of exactly how far she is willing to go in order to stop Solas' plans: Not even death stops this elf. (Post-Trespasser)
1. Chapter 1

"I'm sorry, serah, I believe I misheard you."

"You didn't. I would like fifty."

The kennel master wrung his hands nervously, his eyes darting away nervously from those of his client. "I am so sorry, miss, but there's no way I can breed that many in such a short time. Only got four bitches haven't I?"

"I will take as many as you have immediately ready to part from their mothers, then. The rest I will come for when they are ready." The woman reached within the folds of the dark cloak that rested over her shoulders. Fingers found the weighty bag of gold at her right hip and she worried at the leather thongs that held it in place. The kennel master found it odd that she would not simply reach across with her left hand. "For your services." She said, transferring the sack to his own awaiting palm.

"If I may ask," the man said, peering into the sack with a well-contained expression of relief, "Most are happy with only a few pups. I heard about the Inquisition dissolving - that's right, I know who you are. What nags to be answered is this: what need have you of fifty wolfhounds?"

"I have developed a problem with a particular wolf."


	2. Chapter 2

"I was recognized again." El'una muttered, pulling her glove off with her teeth and shaking raindrops from her hair onto the bearskin rug beneath her feet. "The Inquisition disbanded over half a year hence and I am still unable to conduct affairs discreetly."

Harding drew the tent flaps behind her as she followed El'una into the warm, dry space. "Well you were the most powerful woman in Thedas for two years. People don't forget things as easily as you think they do."

El'una stood before the simple mirror in the corner of the tent and shrugged out of her cloak, drawing a hand across her wet face. "I don't look anything like I used to." Fingers paused over hollows and lines that lent truth to her statement. She wasn't an old elf by any stretch, but there was no denying that she was no longer on the upswing of what gifts youth had to offer. I wonder if I am only more aware of my age because I know it's his fault…

There was an awkward period of silence; Harding wasn't as equipped to handle El'una as she once was. Lace was used to an Inquisitor who readily offered a smile and an encouraging anecdote. This woman was someone else. Flat. Overly practical. Harding never knew the apostate well, but it didn't take the speculation of a thousand Orlesians to conclude that he had left an impact on El'una. Regardless of what he did, the former Inquisitor wasn't sitting around crying into her tea about it. Harding almost wished she would.

"Bah. Enough talk like that, serah." She interjected, relieved when her words pulled El'una's glazed stare away from the mirror. "How did the meeting go? There was no trouble around here while you away. Well… there are isolated pockets of bandits roaming the plains, but they've kept a safe distance."

El'una doffed the soaking cloak on the back of a chair and sat at her desk, subconsciously clenching fingers and muscles that no longer existed at Harding's mention of the bandits. She considered herself lucky that she had an adequate guard in the event of attackers, but even Harding and her small company of protectors were not a match for an onslaught in the dead of night. El'una could no longer wield a staff with any measure of surety and was of little aid in a fight for that reason. Dagna had been working on options that would allow El'una to spellcast with the efficiency of a staff, but thus far had been fruitless due to an inevitable lack of resources.

"The meeting was a success." El'una answered, waving her remaining hand over the bank of candles on the desk, feeling slightly cheered by the diminutive flames that guttered obediently into life at the simple motion: The first time she had tried this she had blasted a smouldering hole through the wall of the tent. Magic was unruly and difficult to control when it wasn't focused through a staff, but unless she could find a way to grow back her arm, she was going to have to adapt. "Have Charter send word to Skyhold that pups will be arriving within a fortnight. I've tired of Redcliffe… I am not warmly treated here and I think it would be best to depart in the morning before the Arl's men learn that I'm nearby. "

As she spoke, El'una's hand trailed absently through the air. The movement attracted Harding's gaze and she couldn't help but imagine each curve and gentle twitch of fingers meant there was actually something there; unseeable, but tangible. The bare-faced Dalish lightly closed her hand into a fist and the candles behind her were bereft of life. Harding shivered, feeling much colder than the rain had managed to make her.

"Besides, I would hate for Teagan to get in his head that I have plans to conquer the city." El'una sighed and turned her back to Harding, returning her attention to the candles. With a flick they returned once again to life. "Ma serannas, Lace. Goodnight."

Never quite sure if she was comfortable leaving El'una in this state, Harding pulled aside the tent flap. "Goodnight, your worship. Try and… sleep well." She tried to keep her voice friendly, but was unable to conceal the concern that overshadowed her farewell.

"Aye." Came a whispered reply from El'una, and Harding emerged into the gentle crackle of the rain. She took a seat by the covered fire that Charter had built and dug out a biscuit from her pack.

"All went well for the Inquisitor then?" Charter asked, coming to join Harding by the steaming heat.

"You know she doesn't like being called that anymore." Harding warned.

"Ugh! Blast it all if I don't keep fucking forgetting! Sorry."

Harding glared through the rain at El'una's tent as she chewed at the hard roll. Few words were shared between them as the two scouts sat in the storm. There was no lightning tonight, only a steady, rhythmic glow from within El'una's tent as candles were lit and snuffed just as quickly: A warm heartbeat in a disheartening place. Every now and then the rain would let up just enough for Harding to hear a steady stream of Elvish being murmured beyond the walls.

She wondered what it meant.


	3. Chapter 3

A soft chiming, the subtle swish of skirts; the telltale preface of El'una's arrival at his side.

"For you," She said, holding out a steaming cup of what he could only assume was tea."I've added honey with the hope of making it a bit more palatable." She smiled kindly, not waiting for any recognition or praise before sitting on the grass next to him, careless of the morning dew that would surely soak her skirts.

"Ma serannas."

It was a beautiful, halcyon morning on the Exalted Plains. The sun was just rising into the sky, casting a wan golden light, and the small pond they camped next to was glasslike with its stillness. Reeds and burnt skeletons of trees broke the surface of the glass and a thick mist converged above the water, dampening the harshness of the rising sun, but none of its beauty. There was a sound in the scene that could not be heard; only felt.

"Emma lath," She sighed, watching a solitary ripple spread across the pond, the peace in her voice impossible to miss. He didn't have to ask what she meant by the words; it was not directed at him. No, it was the pond that she spoke so gently to.

It was not the first time he had seen her so enraptured by nearly nothing. Certain unremarkable trees in the Emerald Graves caught her attention in much the same way, as had a windblown swath of grass on a hilltop in the Hinterlands. Each earned a sentiment such as this, a loving gaze, and an admonition of affection, whispered with the vulnerable intimacy of a lover. This distractible habit grew to give him some measure of peace when she was near him; she cared deeply about the easily overlooked intricacies life offered. He could not say that he'd known her long, but there was a warmth in his heart left in the wake of her words.

"There may even be a song." She mused. "You feel the stillness?" She asked, bundling the well-worn fabric of her skirts under her legs and pulling her knees to her chest. She blew softly on her own steaming mug of tea, her lips forming an idyllic 'o' shape.

"Yes." He replied, and El'una tilted her head at his lack of further comment.

"Are you feeling alright?" She inquired, eyes probing his face skeptically. "You usually have no end of comments to make about any given subject. I'm surprised you haven't attempted to re-teach me what a sunrise truly is." Though there was no breeze, a few wisps of her chestnut mane drifted lazily about her face and shoulders as she spoke. "Not that I wouldn't welcome the opportunity to hear your input on the matter."

He laughed, a sleep-filled bark that gave away the best of him. "Thoughts come easily in the morning, lethallin. Words are often more elusive."

She disguised the bloom of colour in her cheeks as a delicate and premeditated sip from her mug. "Your voice falls pleasant on the ears so early in the day." She shut her eyes as soon as the words left her mouth, for all of the confidence she thought she possessed left with them. Her fingers immediately busied themselves; strands of hair were tucked behind ears, her scarf was pulled up a little higher around her neck, stray threads were tugged at.

"As does yours."

Fingers instantly paused. El'una looked at Solas, fearing to be met with a mocking sneer, but she surprised instead to see only a warm smile crinkling the corners of drowsy looking eyes.

By the Dread Wolf, he wants to kiss me.

The clarity of their situation swept over her at the exact moment that her lungs fluttered due to the arrhythmic racing of her heart. All of her breath flushed from her body in the guise of a very quiet, very surprised, incredibly nervous sounding, "ha!"

Thoughts tumbled over each other in their haste to be crowned victorious in their struggle to become actions. He is wonderful company. Perhaps, but I am obligated to something much more important right now. Why would it have to matter? What matter is there in a single kiss? You feel it…. right? The energy is palpable, strong; you could reach out and touch it with barely a thought. Magic is magic, after all…

The battle was won by the thought that conquered all others and in its spoils, became impulse, which in turn became motion; the slightest loosening of the fingers that held her mug close to her chest was the cause of scalding tea covering her lap a second later. Her mug rolled off her hip and across the earth as El'una scrambled to her feet, a concerto of small metal charms and whirling skirts joined rapidly by a wounded snarl, "Fenedhis! Teldirthalelan… avy asaya gera assan i'ara'av'ingala! Felasil…" She trailed off incomprehensibly for a moment and then roared again through clenched teeth as the hot liquid seeped through her clothing and worried at her delicate skin. Through heavy breaths, she forced some semblance of composure back into her being and straightened, "Ir abelas. You must think me to be simpleminded, standing before you, dripping with tea."

Solas only crossed his legs and turned his gaze to the splendid and still pond. Outwardly oblivious to the reasoning behind her machinations, he drank his own tea as though he hadn't just witnessed the spectacle El'una allowed herself to become.

"Ir'ina'lan'ehn." He commented, for all intents purposes, observing the morning mist.


	4. Chapter 4

There is no room argument or delusion; this is her life now.

Boiled down in the simplest of terms with the richest emotions and the sharpest of hurts stripped away, she is nothing more than a woman alone, with an absurd reality facing her. She is an insect struggling tirelessly at the glass walls that trap it: She is no evanuris. She is well aware that she is no ancient elf, gifted with immortality and magical connection that is surely beyond the boundaries of her wildest dreams. She is an elf of this age, mortal, fragile, easily broken, and connected to the Fade only so far as his wall will allow.

His jar.

Her dreams are a perpetual rhythm, manifesting broadly across the Fade - little more than a pulsing, dissonant chant; a susurrus of disjointed reasoning accompanied by hours upon hours of candles bursting to life and being extinguished just as quickly as she slumbers with her face pressed against the same table she dreams of, small streams of wax likely edging closer to her with each passing minute that she unknowingly continues her labour.

She no longer seeks a wolf during her dreaming.

He no longer puts himself in her line of sight.

He can't remember who gave up first.

Nevertheless, he finds himself drawn to the on-again-off-again pattern of light that she provides now.

Indomitable focus indeed, he surmises, as a he lurks on the edges of her dream, impressed by the fact that not only are her flames strong, they are warm as well: Creating the visual essence of something in the Fade is one thing. Smaller, subtler, but no less potent - senses such as touch, taste and scent are far more difficult to create accurately.

Her efforts are not without credence, though she may not know it yet.

Distantly, he wishes he could take it all away as he watches her toil in her dreams for something that she surely toils for in waking as well: Confidence. It is entirely his fault that she can no longer wield a staff and protect herself in the custom that she was raised to. There could be no mincing of words in that regard; El'una, while not prodigiously talented in any sense, was nothing less than a well-balanced mage. In the days when she was whole and still dreamt with vigour, she demonstrated time and time again not only her aptly mentioned capacity for concentration, but also her tenacity and imaginative spirit. It comes as no shock to him that she demonstrates such diligence in her effort to cast without a stave.

People in this world… mages, required a channeling instrument such as a stave in order to efficiently shape the Fade to their will. Where it was once as simple as breathing, magic now called for an absurd amount of will, effort and focus behind it in order for it to align with its intent. In the time of the Inquisition he was capable of connecting enough with the Fade such that he could move heavy objects and cast veilfire without the aid of a staff, but even those things; comparable to parlour tricks, were tiring and required a profound amount of energy and concentration where there once was a time when they might have been accomplished with little more than a thought.

Her indecipherable chant continues and though he can't understand her words, he is reminded of singing. She can no longer play the lute anymore: Only one more happy thing that he is fully aware that he has robbed her of. Despite the cruelty of reality, he is glad to see she has not lost her love for song. He turns then, to abandon her to her nightly ritual in peace.

He has nothing to fear from her, despite her determination: An insect with a thick exoskeleton and venomous stings will still be bound by glass despite its instinctive aspirations of escape. She poses no threat to his ends further than the boundaries that sentimentality allow. It is easier and more comforting to attribute her tireless efforts at this point to survival rather than to plotting: El'una is ambitious, but she is not foolish. Content with the beguiling thought, he turns to leave, a phantom ready to vanish back into the Fade. Well, he is until he realizes what it is she is chanting in the ever-changing light. After thousands of years of practice in the art of feigning complete disinterest in nearly anything, there are few things that can make his eyes widen the way they do now.

"It is cracked… it is cracked… it is cracked…"

The candles go out.

"It is cracked, it is cracked, it is cracked, it is cracked, it is cracked."

The sky? No. Scarred yes, but no longer cracked in any sense of the word. She had irrefutably taken care of that. No, she speaks of something else in the dark, a notable silence between her words; she does not rock in her chair like a madwoman. He can see the tangible proof as fire erupts around the wicks of the candles once again.

" -cracked, it is cracked, it is cracked."

Words in elven; an indistinct hiss that seemed to be entirely rent from purpose itself: This is old magic, he knows. The words that are spoken matter little; words change over time, and where a word meant one thing one year, in a hundred it had the potential to shape to a different interpretation. Words are fickle. It is how they are spoken that lends them power. He wonders if she is even aware that she's doing it.

The question is left unanswered for now: With a motion she rises from her seat, skirts and fine chains singing together as they once did, though now their orchestra is rounded out in full by the perfectly balanced hum of her voice and the obedient tendrils of flame that follow her wake. Her feet settle and her shoulders square for only a moment and he wonders if she pauses because she has seen him. The charms of her familiar raiment resolve in the song and her skirts still around her bare ankles.

If she did in fact see him, she gives away no further outward indication of it. She takes a couple of steps into the darkness, raises her whole and half arm and manages the flame, twirling, leveraging, and winding within half a dozen tendrils of living light like a cat in a beam of light.

It is time for me to leave, he decides: This may be nothing but a happy dream, but if it is not and her determination has instead drawn a spirit of Purpose to her, I cannot return. If she is unaware of the power of words, if this is by chance some strange fluke or fancy gone awry, I should not be present. Purpose is a powerful virtue and if it is thoughts of her plight that motivate her, I will only encourage Purpose more with my presence.

He turns and leaves, retreating to a remote but beautiful portion of the Fade where the sky does not look unlike the sea when the moonlight dances upon it.

Modesty comes to him under the ocean-sky, less gleaming and prismatic than most spirits; it is comparable to the infinite particles of dust that pass through a sunbeam; admirable and halcyon if looked at in just the right way, but easily overlooked from another angle - Downright irritating if it happens to be coating everything within sight.

"It is all right to be frightened." It promises with such earnest confidence that he almost believes that he is in fact afraid of what he just saw. It flits through a beam of silver sky light and around his back. His brow furrows; he has never had much patience for spirits of this ilk before. It has occurred to him that he can't even remember why, but he has never bothered to ask: Modesty brings fair counsel and selfless ideas. What is there to spurn within such things?

"And from whence do you arrive at this conclusion?" The self-forsaken wolf asks, clasping his hands behind his back, not admitting anything, but making it clear that he is not jesting.

Modesty becomes another pillar of dust in the moonlight.

"It is cracked. I am terrified, if I am to be honest." It admits this unassumingly, looking at him as well as spirits can look at anything what with their lack of eyes. Where its eyes might be, he thinks he sees something apologetic… pity? Humility? "Of course… I would never boast. You know it too. You just don't want to admit it. If you are to take responsibility for all else, you may as well take responsibility for the crack too, yes?" Modesty disappears from sight, skipping underneath the shadow of a small cloud, "You must also accept that she is like this because of you." It reminds him before vanishing for good.

He closes his eyes and sighs deeply, attempting to push the image of the chanting mage entwined in subordinate flame from his mind. It was but a dream, a fleeting moment of fancy and freedom where nothing is impossible, he convinces himself.

"I know." He says, trying to believe in the purpose behind his own words, though he cannot rid himself of the nagging thought that something was indeed cracked by his actions.

He decides that he will be happy if he does not see Modesty again for a very long time.


	5. Chapter 5

Stale remnants of curious dreams blunder in and out of her mind the following morning and she feels exhausted upon waking, but El'una is generously lighter of heart during the return to Skyhold and takes apparent delight in the playful young hounds nipping gently at the heels of her courser along the road: The twenty three pups they left with gambol around the small company of travelers with an ease that surprises her: They demonstrate little apprehension, and appear outwardly to be willing and glad participants in this grand new adventure they are partaking in. It is difficult to be sour with multitudes of frolicking gray, fluff falling about the trails, not yet used to their own stringy legs and heavy paws.

She's pleased with her decision, she decides as she pats the neck of her horse. With the Inquisition dissolved and Solas' admittance of his people's infiltration into her ranks, trusting people was no longer a luxury that she could afford to dispense with faith and naive hope.

She was inspired to this course by the bond that Fereldens share with Mabari: Canines are clearly cousins of wolves, though they possess traits that seem to bind them uniquely to people in a way that no other creature possesses.

Hounds are loyal. She has little to fear of duplicity from a dog.

And they're enormous when fully grown; intimidating: measuring up to almost her shoulder while standing on all four paws.

She's fond of that.

Harding crashes through some bush parallel to the trail, mounted on her own stout pony. The hound nearest to El'una perks up its ears and utters the smallest "boof!" At the commotion. El'una reins in her startled horse: The efficiency of the scout never ceases to amaze her.

"Trouble. Possibly." Harding informs El'una, who urges her horse a bit to the side so she can share the trail with Harding. "Roughly three hundred meters ahead." She pauses. "They look Dalish."

El'una sighs quietly and closes her eyes.

"Is there any chance of skirting them?" She asks.

"Not unless you want to double back and skirt the entire forest. That'll add a few days to our travel time though, and I'm afraid these pups are still too young for a journey of that length." As she says this she lobs a few pieces of salted meat on the ground and the pups closest swarm the scraps eagerly.

"Chances of hostility?" El'una inquires. Unlikely as it is that her bare face will be a welcome sight among any clan, knowing ahead of time if she's dealing with a reasonable one versus an attack-on-sight one would be a nice card to hold.

"They are armed, yes. From what I could see they look to be a moderately sized faction of hunters." Harding looks at El'una, notices the slight tremor in her hand that the elf is desperately trying to disguise as fidgeting with the reins. A wave of empathy washes over her; this woman has seen so much and lost everything. She can't even fight properly anymore. "If you want, me and Charter could approach first. Not a big deal, right? We're just a small group of refugees seeking passage." Harding entreats.

"With almost thirty wolfhounds?" El'una replies, raising an eyebrow. "A difficult sell I think. We hardly resemble a travelling circus."

Harding shrugs, "Our kennel was hit by an errant fireball during all of the fighting between the mages and templars. That useless Inquisition never did anything to help us, so now we are left to roam from city to city, seeking work where we can find it. Maker, I'd like to give a piece of my mind to that Inquisitor. Or the sharp end of my knife..." She mutters darkly.

El'una shakes her head, unable to keep a thin smile spreading across her lips despite the nausea that is rapidly overtaking her. "I would buy it, Harding." She says, "I doubt they will. Thank you, but it's probably best if I lead."

Harden your heart to a cutting edge, she reminds herself. Beneath the shell of cruelty around those words lived a very wise piece of advice. She has not had contact with the Dalish since her exile from clan Lavellan. A routine and simmering rage comes to her, filling the gaps between the twist in her gut: My arm, my future, my plans, my heart, my culture, why not take away my family too? Round it out. Fuck you, Solas.

She squeezes her heels into the sides of her horse and the beast takes off at a gentle trot to the front of the small caravan. I am not the Inquisitor, I am not El'una Lavellan. I am not the Herald of Andraste. I am alone: I am autonomous.

It is a depressing and lonely truth, but it feels right in some small way. A tattered memory of her dream from the previous night flutters unbidden through her subconscious again and disappears before she can snatch it and focus on it properly.

The canopy of trees above her slowly gives way and the path bends into a small clearing. She steadies her breathing as her eyes reflexively examine her surroundings for danger. As if she would stand a chance if she was put in a hostile position; she might be able to singe someone's eyebrows off if pressed, but anything further would probably knock her unconscious before it actually did her any good. She doesn't plan on letting them know that though.

The elves have the clearing well covered: There are at least four archers that she can see, and she supposes there are at least two more are tucked away in the trees. The faces that she can see bear the vallaslin of Sylaise and she finds herself inwardly dwelling upon how little it matters whose marks correspond to whom… they're all the same lies. With subtlety, she draws her cloak closer over her left side; she may not be able to hide her identity from these elves ultimately, but she sees no reason to openly advertise it. In an attempt to keep the cloak in place, she dismounts from the horse rather gracelessly, but manages to land on her feet and keep a hold on the reins, positioning herself by the horse's face so that most of her left side is concealed. Behind her, she hears the rest of her companions come to a stop, as small twigs crack under settling hooves. Puppies pour into the clearing, rolling in leaves and sniffing the hunters who can only manage to look befuddled.

They are lovely, she decides, but it will be nice when they are a bit more frightening.

"Aneth ara," She says, bowing her head only slightly before continuing in elven. "My company and I wish only safe passage through the woods."

An elf, tall and broad for his people steps forward at her address, fingers absently oiling the string of a wickedly curved bow. He is not unkind looking, but there is a haughtiness that dwells somewhere in his angular features that puts El'una at unease regardless.

"What travels would require such a peculiar menagerie, I wonder?" The elf asks, and El'una does not overlook the fact that her greeting was not returned.

"Our business is our own, friend, but be assured that it is of no dark design." El'una beseeches calmly.

The hunter sets the bow against the trunk of a tree, lidding the container of beeswax. Somewhere in the trees El'una thinks she can hear the gentle creaking of bowstrings being slackened. "Humour me first, friend." The hunter insists. "What Keeper would let a child of the people go wandering around with such company unattended?" His eyes skip from an uncomfortably intent stare at her bare face and over her shoulder to the company of dwarves, elves, humans and dogs behind her.

"I am no more a child than you." She explains, gracefully placing both feet in the hypothetical snare the hunter had placed for her; as predicted, there was no avoiding this discussion: Lying was going to get her nowhere and Sera had as much as told her that her city accent was rubbish.

Feigned confusion pulls at the hunter's face and he cocks his head, ignoring the pup that has stood up against his knee and began slobbering on his fingers. "You are no flat ear, though; you speak the language of the people with too much practice and ease. There are no foolish made up words in your speech."

She feels her jaw tightening; having to deal with this again is one thing, but having to suffer the indignation of the matter along with the condescending attitude this elf was exhibiting required a different sort of patience all together. "Do you decry my assertion that I am no child, friend? If you take issue with me, please, have peace and let it be heard." She whistles sharply and her pup bounds from the hunter's legs and obediently comes to sit at her side.

"Do I take issue?" The hunter asks, a rhetorical coolness now edging the haughtiness of his voice. The jar of wax is thrown at her. Instinct wins and fails her simultaneously and she reaches out to deflect it with a non-existent left hand. It slides down the fabric of her cloak and settles at her feet where her hound curiously sniffs it.

She returns her gaze to the hunter, demonstrating as little outward emotion as possible despite the fact that she knows exactly what comes next. She did her crying over this. She embraced the rage and the sense of betrayal and abandonment and let it burn away until she was left with nothing but the embers of a past life: She is done with it.

"How could any of the people not take issue with the Dread Wolf's concubine attempting to pass as one of us?"

"Legend spreads quickly among the people: A construct of half-truths and the carefully selected history of victors." She notes. "I am pleased to see our keen interest in preserving such stories has not diminished." She is light of speech; amicable enough to placate any assumption that she's a threat, but earnest so that there is no room for the hunter to think she is having a laugh at his expense. "I am not trying to pass as one as you, friend: I am trying to pass through the woods. Ask what you would of me, and I will attempt to explain as best I can." She conjures more questions in the hunter's mind and expends a tremendous amount of effort, managing to move the pot of wax to her outstretched hand as quickly and obediently as her pup came to heel moments earlier. She wonders if she's overdone it as her vision doubles and she feels faint.

Apprehensive at first, the hunter's eyes flick from the small jar in her hand back to her bare face as if trying to fathom how she had gotten away with some offensive lie.

"You are a liar." He announces. "This power you possess…" his eyes flit to the beeswax again, "... it is given to you by Fen'Harel. It is a boon of the flesh that you fed him - your own arm. He has devoured it and in doing so you are now bound to him."

What El'una really wanted to say to this was: There is a creativity to your story that is both inspiring and admirable despite your blatant idiocy. Shut up, child. I will drag you kicking and screaming down a thorny path of knowledge.

Instead, she smiles indulgently, tosses the wax at the hunter and shrugs.

"I will not deny your story, friend." She declares pleasantly. "What else would you care to know?"

The hunter looks shocked by this. The other elves look shocked by this. None of them had actually expected El'una to come strolling through their hunting grounds, cheerfully declaring all of the stories that they had heard to be true. By Ghilan'nain… she had been shunned by her own clan.

"It… it is true then?" The hunter flapped only slightly for the first time in their conversation so far, appearing younger to her eyes than ever. "It is true that you… were seduced by… by… him?"

El'una taps an impatient finger against the folds of her cloak, attempting to disguise her displeasure: Of all the things you could have asked, you had to go straight to, 'so you fucked Fen'Harel?' It is the biggest mark against her and the reason why she was spurned from her clan; copulating with the elven god of betrayal apparently was not beneficial to a person's standing within the Dalish. She might have attempted to dismiss her relationship with Solas as one of emotional depth only, but there was no hiding the despondency and shame she felt when she returned to her clan after the Inquisition dissolved. She was ragged and hysterical; desperate to cling to the last shred of familiarity that her life held for her. Instead she was met with disgust, fear, distrust and scorn. She is seen as unclean; a foolish girl whose story will be told to frightened young children in the future; El'una Lavellan was the strong heroine who was tricked away from her people and seduced by the Dread Wolf so that he may destroy the world.

The very idea brings bile to her throat.

All tales need an ending however, and this one has not resolved to her liking.

"Yes." She replies with confidence. "I was."

The recoil and expression of revulsion on the face of the hunter and the congruent ripple through his kin are expected: Words are magic and the smallest manipulation of breath can create images within the minds of those it touches. From the looks the faces she sees she expects the predominant image is some sinful and sweaty compendium of the darkest variety; there are flashes of lightning within a storm as her pale form writhes and keens under the many eyed darkness that claims it. Surely she clings to the sheets and screams his real name so loudly that the Forgotten Ones are shifted by her ecstasy. All the while, his gasping and greedy maw inches ever closer to the power entrenched in her left hand…

Couldn't be farther from the truth, but the truth is of dwindling interest to her of late.

The dream stirs again. Why?

"I would… I would give you my pity." The hunter says, demonstrating compassion that turns the tables and forces El'una to be surprised now."I am sorry that you succumbed to the wiles of the Dread Wolf."

"I find myself overburdened with pity, friend." She says. "What I truly require is passage through the woods for myself and my company. You know who and what I am; dare you displease my master? He is awaiting my return." A brazen half-truth, she hopes, and one that will ideally yield results. She takes a step back towards her saddle. She pauses when she hears bows creak all around the clearing. In answer, steel is unsheathed and bows are drawn by those who accompany her. She turns back to the hunter, the dream insistently jockeying for acknowledgement at this precise moment.

It is cracked, it is cracked, it is cracked…

"You would have me killed?" She inquires, palming the side of her horse's face, drawing a thumb across the velvet of its cheek.

"You are -" the hunter falters, all ego gone from him, his face appearing as that of a young boy's. "You are a dangerous construct, sister. I… I cannot let you leave." He holds his own bow, an arrow nocked and aimed precisely at her heart.

Exasperation becomes anguish, which in turn is swept up by the talons of instinct and transformed into fear upon her realization of exactly how vulnerable she is. The fear evaporates and is replaced handily by a weighty sensation of rage at the sight of her own people choosing ignorance and comforting hacked-together legends over the very real fact that they have no idea what they truly believe in: They are making it up as they go and they don't care why. They would murder me in the woods if they thought they could write a fucking song about it. They probably do.

So this is how he must have felt, she finds herself observing distantly as her hand rises in front of her.

Him with his veil.

His rebellion.

His lies.

His trap.

This world.

The jar is cracked with a shuddering and sudden force and breath escapes from lungs and becomes words that no one will remember. A thin veil of fire erupts between El'una and the hunter and rapidly spreads behind her, encompassing the travelers, their steeds and the pups. Arrows burn to ash where they strike the barrier and El'una wastes little time reining in the chaos that unfolds around her: Her horse panics and starts, rearing and screaming before bolting. She only just catches its bridle and is able to launch herself onto its back before it takes off at a dead gallop.

"To me!" She screams over her shoulder, hoping that everyone could follow her. She barrels towards freedom; terror-stricken, despondent, victorious and vindicated. She is laughing as the forest burns around her and she catches ash in her mouth with every breath.

It is cracked.

Everything that she ever learned in her life was naught but a prison enforced by ages upon ages of guesswork and lies and for the first time, she truly gets it. We are taught that we need staves to use magic. We are taught that demons wait for us around every corner in the Fade. We are taught that some magic is unknowable. We are taught that Dirthamen was a peddler of knowledge and loyalty. We are taught that the veil is a tangible and infallible construct.

We are taught that we die.

And we believe it.

"Intent forms the Fade."

Oh how foolish we are...


	6. Chapter 6

"Solas?" El'una entered the room, announcing her presence. "If I may have a moment of your time?"

The elf turned around from the mural on the wall and faced her, paintbrush drifting to his side.

"Certainly," He replied. "But only if you take up a brush and assist me."

El'una tapped her foot nervously on the floor, "I doubt you want me painting anything. What you've created is already so beautiful, I fear I'd ruin it…" She gazed around the walls of completed frescos, genuine in her humility.

Solas smiled, a glibness playing about his lips as he stepped towards El'una and thrust the brush towards her such that she would have felt rude to refuse it. "Your personal touch is what makes you unique. There is no good or bad where originality is put to question."

"If you insist." She sighed, still lacking confidence in her ability to do any of this justice.

"What was it you wished to speak of?" He asked, joining her with a new brush and a truly varied tray of pigmented jars to work with.

"I figured you would be most knowledgeable on the topic of dreams. For... obvious reasons." Her eyes squinted shut at the unbidden memory of Haven and a stolen kiss.

Solas said nothing, he only swept the brush across a small portion of the wall, colouring gray plaster a pleasant mauve. El'una took his silence as a prompt for more.

"I've never spoken to anyone about this before, and I'm sure you'll understand why when I tell you a bit more, but… the way you speak of the Fade… I enjoy hearing you talk about it. I find the way you look at it to be refreshing and ah… relatable."

Solas turned his head and raised an eyebrow before repeating, "Relatable?"

"I was always taught that the Fade was… integral, but filled with peril to those who are not careful. I'm comfortable with it. I've never been afraid of possession or danger, but… can anything be done for those who do not have that comfort?" She asked, rolling her own brush in a dark blue pot of pigment.

"To an extent." He said, "Why do you ask?"

El'una pushed the brush over the wall, tracing in the impression of a circle. "I've always had a distinct lucidity in my dreams where I am capable of realizing at any given moment that I'm dreaming, but unable to do much other than force myself awake. Sometimes I can do a bit more, but only a handful of times in memory. Since the events at the Conclave, I find that I can in some ways alter the events that occur in my dreams. It's commonly easy for me to make conscious decisions as if I were awake. Sometimes I can choose a specific route to run from a foe in a nightmare, or choose a specific question to ask a mysterious figure." She drew the brush around and around, creating sweeping spirals as she waited for Solas to speak.

"Can you give me a specific example of a recent dream where you've demonstrated this ability?" Solas asked, taking a few paces backwards from the wall, tapping his brush against his chin and evaluating his work.

This was not a difficult question to answer. El'una had dozens of dreams ranging from early adolescence till present where she had made lucid decisions, but one of the most recent and most memorable immediately leapt to the top of the list. She had her suspicions about the nature and outcome of the dream, but Solas would be the one to confirm them.

"I was in a dark, simply adorned room. I can't recall his face, but I know the elf with me was male. I remember he was tall and lithe, and I remember he had no hair on his head… not unlike you." She felt blood rush to her face at her words as she hoped that he did not immediately jump to the conclusion that it was that sort of dream.

Solas shot her a sidelong as he painted and listened, "I can assure you it was not me."

"Yes I… think I knew that too. I wasn't sure at first, but as soon as I wondered it seemed obvious." She cleared her throat and went on. "The most striking thing that I noticed about this elf after we had spoken for a fashion was that while he did not possess the vallaslin that the Dalish do: His entire upper body was unclothed and covered with the most elaborate designs I've ever seen on skin."

"Do you recall the designs?"

El'una frowned in concentration, trying to remember the specific details, frustrated at their lack of obedient clarity in the moment that she truly needed them. It wasn't until she glanced at her portion of the mural that her breath caught.

"Yes, actually…" She whispered, resting the end of the brush between her teeth for a moment. "They looked nearly identical to this." She pointed the brush at the wall, feeling wholly unnerved.

What had started as empty space was now a sizable composition that depicted the sun and the moon, golden and gleaming on one side, and inky blue on the other. Waves of movement spiraled through each side in a respectively contrasting colour, and where there were gleaming white stars picked out on the side of the moon, there were gentle clouds of what might have been blue smoke on the side of the sun. It was amateur at best, but the detail alone was striking and El'una recognized the image instantly: She hadn't created this image; she had only brought it to life. "It was all over his back and his arms. I don't remember much of his front…"

"And what did this elf want with you?"

"He wanted to teach me how to center myself when I felt frightened in combat. Something that would help me nullify the effects of any fear-inducing magic that could be used against me."

Solas' brow furrowed. "Did he tell you why he chose to impart this knowledge upon you of all people?"

El'una shrugged. "Only that the knowledge he passed on would aid me if I dreamed that I might ever conquer fear."

"Curious…" Solas mused resting his brush in the cup of water at his feet. "And you remember having complete control over whatever words you said and however you reacted to this dream? It wasn't like most dreams where you are nothing but a bystander to your fate? Or perhaps unable to speak or think altogether?"

"I wasn't a bystander to anything. I… I remember making decisions then, saying words as I intended them to come out." El'una answered as best she could.

"Then I have every reason to believe that you were sharing a portion of the Fade with a spirit of Valor," Solas claimed as if this occurrence was akin to looking out of a window and announcing the state of the weather. "It must have seen something very admirable within you to be drawn to you in such an intimate way."

El'una exhaled. She felt something uncommonly deliberate about the elf that she communicated with in the dream. She was convinced that there was a purpose to her being there and for it being drawn to her to begin with, what mattered now, was what?

"What could be causing this? I mentioned that this… awareness has been happening a lot more of late. Am I safe?"

"There is likely a variety of reasons and no one, solid answer." Solas said, retrieving his brush and submerging it in a blood-like red. "You mentioned the lucidity of your dreams increased dramatically after you received the mark. The energy of the veil swirls around you: That mark allows you to manipulate the Fade, thus it seems plausible that you find yourself prone to manipulate it while you dream, even unintentionally. Manipulating the Fade in dreams is far different and more precise than the way you handle it in real life."

"And before the mark?"

Solas knelt and rinsed his brush clean. "You are..." He hesitated, seeming to search for a word that should have been obvious, but somehow eluded him."... Dalish. Your people tell of how all elvenkind used to be masters of Dreaming? That may no longer be so, but there are more elves that can Dream than there are human mages who are only barely adept. Dreaming will always come easier to some than others; it may be that you're just incredibly lucky. "

"Is there any way for me to take more control over the specifics of my dreams? What if I wanted to dream of a certain place or person? Could I safely do that?"

Solas chuckled, "Lethallin, even the most well-practiced mages study for years to unlock the secrets of dreams. I have devoted my entire life to it, and much of the Fade is still a mystery to me. For someone such as you to be able to take control of the Fade to the extent which you suggest is an unlikely goal, even with the benefits of the mark. As for the danger that would be involved, it's difficult to say. If I care to dream of a certain place, I must first visit it. Often I have to dream within it. I recall your astonishment at my admittance of sleeping in ruins. Are you planning to do the same? I was under the impression you dislike spiders." His eyes twinkled then.

"Perhaps, but the spiders I can handle. What I'm more concerned with is if what you say of spirits in the Fade is true, they react to the mindset of the dreamer. The spirit that was drawn to me was benevolent, why would I be at risk if I trained my myself to maintain that openness in the Fade so any spirits I happen to encounter do not manifest themselves as demons?" This was important to her: She was not going to drop this idea without a fight and a damn good reason to.

"It's not as simple as just thinking 'no demons tonight,' El'una." Solas explained. "The Fade does not function as the world around us does, and it is often difficult to discern reality from what is bent or altered." He picked up the smoked glass mug that held water tinted with pigment. "This paintbrush is straight to your eyes, yes?" He held it up and El'una nodded before he dropped it brush-end down into the mug and held it up to her eyes. "Does it look straight now?"

El'una squinted through the murky glass before answering, "It looks like it's in two different places. One piece of it is above the water, the other piece is slightly apart from the rest… like it's been separated."

"Has it been?"

"Not unless you're playing some trick on me." She countered without a thought, meeting his eyes.

Solas withdrew the brush from the mug and it was whole and straight again.

"No magic, only a different perception of reality." He said, "That is what the Fade is. What may be law here, is not law there, or… sometimes it is. It is ever-changing." He placed the mug on the table and crossed his arms, assessing El'una and her insistence to pursue the Fade. "Might I ask why you possess such a stubborn interest in manipulating the Fade?"

"I want to…" she began slowly, carefully choosing her words despite already knowing the reaction they would earn. She could not get the dream out of her mind: Stumbling upon Cullen in the Fade was a complete accident. "I know someone who is deeply troubled by their dreams. Tormented even. I have already committed myself to helping as many as I can with the Inquisition, and if this mark has earned me that responsibility, I would use it to help him too."

"You speak of the Commander." Solas observed, letting his arms fall to his sides. "In that case I strongly encourage you to abandon your intentions. "

"But if I can -." El'una started.

"You can't." Solas interrupted. "Tell me, has he ever made you privy to any details of the nightmares he suffers?"

"No." El'una answered; she could never just casually mention something like that in conversation.

"There is a reason for that, Inquisitor. He wishes not to worry you further. He is a man of duty and action, and he feels responsible for the things that haunt him in the Fade. Have you considered that he may believe he deserves the terrors? Perhaps they are penance for his mistakes."

El'una felt blood rushing to her face, "To be honest, I don't care if that is the case. It's killing him!"

"Cullen is only a man." Solas said remaining calm despite El'una's flaring temper. "He is in no physical harm in the Fade. You on the other hand, are a unique case with unknowable limits."

"I've only ever learned one way to know limits of any sort." El'una snapped.

"You are speaking purely from your heart!" Solas argued, his own voice taking a hard edge now. "Even if you were capable of controlling your perception of spirits in the Fade, you would not be able to control his! The rawness, the pain, the regret, the shame that he feels are more potent than any feelings of peace you would hope to bring. While you alone may perceive spirits of Serenity and Peace, he will inevitably twist those things to Despair and Fear, both of which are more potent emotions that will surely overpower any control you would hope to have. Would you rather have the cards fall such that you are both trapped in his nightmare?"

"I would trap myself in a thousand of his nightmares and never dream of beauty again if it meant that he wasn't alone." She swept an unruly swath of hair off her face and behind her ear. "You don't understand how much he suffers. I need to try. I need to find him, and I need to use what that spirit taught me to help him." She began stalking towards the door. "If you refuse to help me, I will find a way myself."


	7. Chapter 7

As a child she had been prone to vivid nightmares. The kind that would force her awake in the silent hours of night as she lay in her bedroll, a silent scream etched on her face while a headless man watched her, and an unseen force sat on her chest crushing air from her lungs. Those were the worst; the realest. Others included were frightening forays into the Fade where monsters that looked like little children rose from pits of bile on the ground as they lurched towards her, barring her escape. Sometimes she was on fire; able to physically feel the flames burning through her clothes to such an extent that she'd fling her shirt off of her before she realized she was awake. Sometimes she was locked in a small room with a man cloaked in black that crouched, upside down on the corner of the ceiling like a perverted spider, licking his lips as he whispered promises of murder to her with one breath, and with another pledged her the world.

"It was naught but a dream," Keeper Deshanna would soothe, pushing sweaty hair away from El'una's small face. "You must remember that, child."

She took it to heart; Deshanna was getting frustrated of waking up every other night to a child trying to scurry under the covers and little El'una knew she would not be allowed to get away with it for much longer: She was going to have to prove that she could cope with and overcome this.

It started with small things at first. For the most part she was still at the mercy of the Fade and any torments it could draw from her, but her first triumph arrived some nights later when she found herself alone in an abandoned village with a horde of undead shambling towards her. She had no chance of escape, no way to defend herself, nowhere to hide. Fear pressed in around her as the reality of her demise became increasingly real. Helplessly she cast around for something she had missed; a way to fight or escape, ideally. She paused when her eyes fell upon a dilapidated building some yards away: There was something familiar about the faded blue paint that flaked from it. She was certain she had seen in before. Her eyes snapped to the fenced pond on the other side of the lane. Yes, she recognized that too. Three boards between each post, twelve posts in total. A perfect place to sit with other young people and feed ducks.

I have been here before.

Yes. In happier lighting and bluer skies with far more animals and people around this was a beautiful, friendly little town, not unlike one that they may normally stop at to trade with the shems. It was dark now; starless and moonless, and the cottages and merchant stands sagged and splintered under years of disrepair and violence, but there was no doubt that this was a place that she had dreamt of before.

I am dreaming. She realized as her attention returned to the undead that had almost closed the distance between them. I have no hope of escape, but I can…

Her eyes flew open to greet the canvas roof of the aravel. Trees waved their arms outside and their leaves sang a song of sleep.

A small smile came to her face in the dark: She understood now.

Wait till Keeper Deshanna finds out...

* * *

The familiar hall around her echoed with the sounds of frivolity and cheer. El'una looked around the dining hall from her place at the high table and felt herself smile at the sight of Skyhold's people dining and dancing, singing and toasting. She felt the wet nose of a hound nudge her knee under the table, hoping for a scrap. El'una obliged, tearing off a small piece of her roast and passing it to the drooling creature as subtly as possible before lifting her goblet of wine to her lips.

"May I have this dance, my Lady?"

She set the goblet down and savoured the bold taste of the wine on her lips, turning to the speaker who had placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Of course you may, my Lord." She smiled up at the kind face of Lord… Lord… her husband to be. She pushed her chair away from the table and stood, slipping her hand into the soft, warm grip of her betrothed who walked her to the dance floor.

"This is a favourite song of mine." He said softly as El'una gathered him into her arms and began to lead a waltz. He rested his head on her shoulder as they danced and El'una slowly halted as familiar realization dawned upon her. This all felt rather like trying to put an item of clothing on backwards.

"As enjoyable as this is, my sweet love, this is in fact my favourite song, not yours, and I fear that I have somewhere else to be at the moment."

The handsome lord looked at her, confusion written on his absurdly good looking face. El'una struggled not to laugh, and she struggled even harder not to wake up: Marrying some rich Ferelden lord was never any sort of reality for her; this entire scenario was so ridiculously laughable. The problem with being able to wake up from a terrible dream, was that it became more common to wake up when she realized she was dreaming at all. Instead she forced herself to focus on the disjointed conversation of the noble couple nearby while she gained her bearings.

Yes, she was definitely at Skyhold. She looked at her hands; cuts, calluses, the mark. Yes. This was indeed a dream, and while she needed to leave her dance with the handsome lord, it was of utmost importance that she remain dreaming.

"Cullen." She spoke out loud to herself. She looked up from her hands and glanced around the warmly lit room. Things dimmed in front of her eyes dangerously and she felt her fingers tighten around something that might have been a blanket. She cast around desperately and wrapped the same fingers around something in the dream: A fork.

Things stabilized and returned to normal. The music and chatter continued and the handsome lord stood silent and un-moving in front of her; nothing more than a handsome waxwork of fantasy.

"Cullen." She repeated, taking a step forward, then another, then another. She circled the room, ducking between dancing couples and servants, a hermit on the edge of the dance floor, and a magician near the wine. "Cullen." Where would Cullen be in this imagining of the Fade? For a moment she wondered if she wasn't in over her head, if perhaps she should heed Solas' caution and abandon this dangerous endeavor. She steeled herself; no, she cared too much about the well-being of her Commander to let this slide. At the very least, she required a healthy man to lead the Inquisition's army, at the very most, he was a friend and she could not bear to see him suffer. She pushed on, eventually nearing the massive fireplace that was set into the wall where Varric usually spent his free time in waking life.

A large group of people was gathered near the fireplace, huddled around something that El'una could not see. There was between fifteen and twenty of them and they were all laughing and clapping and shouting cheerfully, their backs turned to El'una.

While the inviting atmosphere that had permeated the dream never changed, El'una felt a jolt of terror run through her when she saw what entertained the group of people so.

A male lion, enormous and golden was chained inside an iron cage, pacing fearfully as the guests of Skyhold jeered and prodded at it. Rage rippled through her; she would never allow something like this to happen inside of Skyhold. She and her clan held firmly to the belief that Ghilan'nain had created the beasts of the wild, and thus they belonged to her and for that reason deserved reverence. Naturally sustaining themselves with the flesh and hide of game was one thing, but humiliating, taunting and being cruel to animals for the sake of entertainment ran deeply against what El'una was taught.

Remembering this, El'una forced her reactive emotions back, replacing them with calm lucidity. This was still her dream, and the lion was unmistakably her interpretation of Cullen, but she couldn't help him here: using her emotions to stop the guests from taunting the lion would only serve to alter her own perception, not Cullen's. She had found the crooked section of paintbrush under the water. She needed to remove the water.

The lion growled far back in its throat and pressed its back against the iron bars that held it: Someone was jabbing at it with a fireplace poker. El'una watched as the majestic beast lifted a paw the size of her face and batted feebly at the poker.

It looked up for a moment and El'una met its large, golden eyes. They were round, fearful and full of sadness, and the hall around her was replaced for a moment by a place that was cold and dark. The lion snarled and El'una was back in the hall, although the unmistakable scent of magic and blood hung thick in the air.

Elbowing her way between guests, she pressed herself as closely to the cage as possible, reaching through the gaps in the bars and holding out a hand to the lion.

"Cullen." She whispered, resting her forehead against the bars.

The lion looked up at the name and took a tentative step forward as El'una was jostled by the rambunctious crowd.

"It's okay." She promised as people threw grapes at the lion and tried to grasp his long tail. "It's okay."

The lion ceased abruptly a few inches away from El'una's outstretched fingers. Its lips rose in a twitch and the world around her flickered again. Between the space of a blink she saw a man in Templar armor with blonde hair in a heap on the ground at her feet. Traumatized brown eyes raked over her. Shock gave way to anger, and Cullen couldn't seem to form words. Everything smelled of fear and lightning.

El'una only had the irritated toss of a mane and a clipped roar to serve as warning. She jerked her hand back just in time to avoid the brutal jaws of the lion clamping down on her arm. She settled herself and stood her ground. The lion huffed angrily, its chains shifting as bystanders continued to torment it.

He recognized her, El'una knew that much. She had crossed into his dream for only a moment, but he recognized her. His reaction however, suggested he believed her to be little more than another illusion.

It would do her no good to enter Cullen's dream if he thought she was only a demon taking her shape. The lion gnashed its teeth and continued to pace, dragging its chains along with it. El'una observed that he was bleeding freely now, his mane matted with a dark sticky substance that dribbled onto the floor. Her stomach lurched uncomfortably at this realization: It was one thing for him to be tormented, but to see him physically tortured was another. Was this injury from her dream, or his?

She noticed then, that her hand was still solidly gripping the fork she had picked up earlier. She looked down to see that it had been replaced by a sword.

"Go on then, My Lady." The guest nearest to her said encouragingly. "Slay the beast! Put it out of its misery!"

El'una turned, ready to furiously rebuke the guest, but flinched when the woman's face appeared to pull and distort. She looked around at the other people surrounding the cage and saw that their faces had all begun to do the same: flesh sagged from empty sockets and sneers pulled at the corners of mouths that were too wide.

"What - what are you?" She took a step back, raising the sword defensively as the group around the lion turned its focus on her instead, cruel laughter directed at her now as they began to press in.

"Kill the beast!" They chanted; a legion of terrible voices. El'una could see through a small gap in the crowd that the lion was slumped on the floor, all of the fight in it gone as it bled out.

The gruesome details of their faces were all El'una could focus on as they edged closer to her, and she felt her lucidity slipping away as her carefully crafted focus began to unravel into a familiar nightmare.

"No… don't make me do this!" She plead as they muscled her back to the cage. Her fingers loosened around the sword and she heard it clatter to the ground as her physical anchor to the dream left her and her surroundings once again dissolved into those of Cullen's.

She immediately felt her arms seized by half a dozen strong, very angry hands. She realized then why she smelled blood and lightning the last time she was here. She understood the vicious purple glow. She comprehended the quaking man in the Templar armor.

She was in Kinloch Hold.

She had stumbled into the memory of a dozen hate-filled, vengeful blood-mages who now lingered in the Fade, seeking pain as recompense for the lives that were stolen from them. They languished in pain and torment, drawing spirits of Compassion and Sorrow and twisting them unknowingly to Resentment and Despair. It only made sense that the remnants of these emotions would be drawn to Cullen; a Templar responsible for their suffering. Her heart quickened as she realized the very real danger that she was in.

"Cullen!" She barked, struggling against the arms that pulled her back. Solas was right; placid, well-intentioned focus was useless here in Cullen's pocket of the Fade. He couldn't seem to see El'una as anything other than another specter sent to torment him. "Fuck." She muttered, j abbing an elbow into the face of one of the nightmare assailants. She managed to pull her left arm free, and she reached out towards her Commander who was frozen in place, staring in shock at the viciously attacking phantoms.

"I don't… I don't understand…" He croaked through cracked, bleeding lips. Whatever he was seeing, it was certainly different than what he usually experienced. El'una supposed the attention of the memories was usually focused on him. It would surely seem strange to see them so intent on attacking whatever it was she appeared to be. She had his attention and it was very much at her cost: There wasn't much time.

"Cullen, run." She snarled, stomping her heel down on the foot of one of the constructs that was trying to claw at her face. I have nothing in common with you. Leave me be.

"Run…?" He repeated distantly, still staring at her with a vacant expression as she saw him working to figure out what was happening. "I can't run…" He stated and El'una wanted to strangle him herself.

"You can!" She promised instead, holding out her anchor-lit hand like a beacon with a half-dreamt hope that he would be able to figure out it was her. "You can run. You have always been able to run! Do it now, Commander!" The order fell from her lips and she immediately felt badly about it; she had never relished the notion of ordering anyone to do anything. Even around the war table, she considered him an equal. This was not the war table, however, and she had precious little time to exert any control over this situation. She could feel herself starting to slide back into a waking state, her mind instinctively seizing on the safety line that connected her to reality as the furious spectres around her clawed at her skin and pulled at her hair. She was little more than a terrified child once more, and instinctual terror was beginning to overwhelm her sense of reason.

She let it happen.

She was taking his nightmare and making it her own. She was keeping them focused on her: Her magic, her natural connection to the Fade. The fact that she was lucid and not some random dreamer. She waved her glowing hand at him one last time as the figures began to overwhelm her, beginning to crush her to the ground. He took a final, lingering glance at her, looking worn, beaten and monumentally confused before he heeded her command, turned and disappeared into the darkness at a dead sprint.

El'una didn't take the time to rejoice; she knew she needed to get out of this place before she succumbed to the full brunt of Cullen's nightly tribulations. The spirits that surrounded her seemed greedy - thrilled that someone so aware had stumbled into their hell that was reserved for Cullen each night.

A blood-slicked and burnt hand reached for her throat, fingers slipping over her unbroken flesh while they tightened over her windpipe and began to squeeze. She groaned and her conviction flagged as she resigned herself to the depth of this nightmare. Cullen ran and that was all that mattered. She knew this was a dream. She would shoulder this. She would gladly do it a thousand more times… Solas and his concern be damned, she decided, although there was an immediate twinge of guilt at the thought; he had only advised her against this with her best interests at heart. He was far more knowledgeable in the Fade than she and she had flouted that fact like a petulant child.

Then… a warm, somewhat clammy hand on her arm. Someone shaking her. Wildflowers. Soft blankets, legs tangled in sheets. Moonlight. A sound she could not comprehend.

El'una shoved the hand away and gasped for air as sleep lifted and consciousness returned. Her eyes flicked open and she stared, wide-eyed into the face of an elven servant.

"Lady Inquisitor?" The woman said, eyes also wide. "Forgive the intrusion… I… I heard screaming."

She groaned and pushed herself into an upright position with the palm of her hand, while running her other hand through the damp mop of hair that she could feel plastered to her head in some places, sticking up madly in others. Her heart pounded in her chest and she felt the familiar dissociative state of an adrenaline rush ebbing away. She pressed the heels of her shaking hands into her eyes as her stomach rolled on itself. It had been a very long time since she had experienced a nightmare that went so deep. Without warning she lurched to the side, and vomit splattered the floor next to the bed.

"Ugh…" She uttered, willing her heart to slow down. "Ir abelas." She sat up and wiped her mouth with the back of her arm, feeling worse for the deeply concerned servant than herself. "It was only a nightmare. I'm fine."

"You are certain, Inquisitor?" The woman asked, looking less than convinced.

"Yes." She said, her head still spinning.

The breeze from the open door to the veranda played over them both, chilling El'una's hot skin as a question finally formed in her mind. "What… what were you doing outside my chambers at this time of night?"

The servant cleared her throat and motioned to a tray that had looked to have been hastily doffed onto the table near the stairs. A steaming mug and a small plate of what looked like warm bread sat atop it. El'una's brow furrowed: She certainly didn't recall asking for a snack to be sent up this late at night.

Sensing El'una's confusion, the scullery maid spoke up again, "The mage who does those beautiful paintings in the rotunda requested they be sent up. Kitchen thought he was barmy, making a request like that at half-three in the morning, but it was lucky timing, wasn't it? Sounds like you almost died of fright." The maid crossed to the table and retrieved the mug and the small plate, bringing them over to El'una's bedside. She accepted the mug with a smile and slightly shaking hands: Hot lemon water: Instantly calming.

"Lucky timing indeed." She mused, hiding a small smile behind the rim of the cup, imagining Solas still awake, sitting at his table with a book propped open with one hand, and a steaming mug of his own in the other… looking very smug indeed.

* * *

A night at camp swallowed her. It was a cloudless in the Hinterlands, allowing her ample opportunity to spend time on her watch, divining the stars, asking them questions that only they could whisper back in time itself. She lay on her back, stretched out on the grass, losing herself in their mystery as Bull snored a symphony in a nearby tent.

Greens and blues danced against the black; colours not wrought a rift in the sky, but rather a colourful display that had existed beyond the grasp of memory, let alone the breach. A star fell out of the sky, followed by another soon after, and the hazy arm of the galaxy that cradled them lingered comfortingly like a fine haze across the sky. Feeling blessed, she acknowledged that she hadn't seen such a memorably beautiful sky in… well… she couldn't actually remember the sky ever looking like this if she was honest.

"Beautiful, yes?"

She started and flipped onto her stomach, fingers wrapping instantly around her staff.

"You… you complete bastard." I'm not even awake right now. I'm not even in the Hinterlands. Haven't I had enough dreams for one evening?

Solas warmed his hands by the fire, its bright violet colour originally overlooked by El'una. He said nothing, only smiled slightly.

"You made all of this?" She asked, looking around her. Granted, now that she was aware of the fact she was dreaming, there were small giveaways everywhere; the fire of course. The grass beneath her was far too green and lush for this time of year, Bull's cacophonous snores had ceased and there wasn't a single Inquisition agent in sight.

"No, only altered it to my liking, and… hopefully yours." He answered.

El'una sighed. "I should have listened." She admitted, letting go of her staff and sitting back on her knees. "Going after Cullen… did not work out well."

"Not for you, perhaps." Solas conceded. "But the Commander slumbers peacefully tonight for what might be the first time in years thanks to you." Any edge or exasperation that had lingered in his voice from their discussion earlier was gone. If anything he sounded a bit tired, but relaxed.

"How did you know to send the maid up?" El'una blurted, unable to keep the pressing question to herself any longer.

Solas' eyes flicked up and vivid light danced within their mischief. "You dream loudly." He pointed out, though not unkindly.

"Oh, ir abelas, ser. I shall try to remember myself in the future." She quipped.

He laughed low in his throat at her timeless wit. "You misunderstand, El'una. While I am not surprised that you struggled through that experience, I must stand corrected in respect to my own ego; you possess an organized mind, and that was not even half the disaster I anticipated."

El'una nibbled the inside of her cheek. "You were watching me." She finally said.

"In part." Solas admitted. "No more than any other bystander that found themselves there."

"You mean other people were in my dream… just watching?" El'una asked, feeling rather infringed upon.

"Probably. But they were unlikely as conscious of it than you or me. Like I said; you dream loudly. Others in the Fade will be pulled towards such volume whether they mean to be or not."

"I still should have consulted with you further. I… I apologize for earlier. My temper got the best of me."

"Why apologize for breaking the rules of a game that you don't even know?" He asked then, looking genuinely puzzled. "I myself must apologize for forgetting that, and for underestimating your focus."

El'una cleared her throat, feeling utterly complimented, but very flushed. "Thank you, then." She muttered.

"You recognize settings, do you not? You anchor yourself to a place in the Fade when you realize that you have seen it before." He hypothesized.

"I dream of no more than ten and no less than eight such places. Usually they are not real; they can't be real. Some of them at least. But even the ones that aren't real I… know. There may be something different happening, or there might be some small change in appearance, but they are always the same places. They are like…" Her words flagged as she searched for the right ones. "They are like little homes, just for me, that only I know how to get to. Sometimes they hold delight and adventure, other times they are oppressive and frightening. Regardless, I somehow always know that they are mine."

He nodded slowly at her explanation. "The fact that you even recognize all of these places from so many experiences is the first step in being able to alter them." He told her, his eyes bright, engaged and… proud?

"Alter them?" She scoffed, "Hardly a simple feat, Solas. Tonight. This. It was a farce. I had to fight tooth and nail to remain asleep and calm, let alone barely shift the tide of what happened. Only by letting the nightmare take me was I able to manipulate the outcome of that dream."

"Simple is hardly what 'able' was meant to intend." He retorted. "If you have the time, I could show you?" His words noticeably changed direction from an offer to a question, betraying a curious and uncharacteristically vulnerable state. The change in tone made colour rise in her cheeks once again and she felt a familiar twang of regret for not kissing him by that pond: Outside of the Fade. Properly.

"Only if you aren't intending on starting with the lofty task of hanging stars in the sky." She said, joining him by the fire.

This earned her another low chuckle, "Of course not."

With only a small gesture over the fire, its flames instantly became bright white. She took the opportunity to push the palm of her hand up against his, feeling his realness in the valleys and grooves of his palm and the sensation of his fingers flat against her own. How could dreams feel so tangible? They both pondered the same question for a time, and then Solas spoke.

"Small things at first, vhenan. Eventually, with enough practice you will be able to create an escape for yourself or remove the ground from under a foe who is chasing you. You will be able to change your face or dance among the stars. Further effort will give you the ability to summon forth entire settings, either imagined or drawn from ancient memory." He pressed the backs of her fingers to his lips, and she wished he didn't look so fucking sad as he said, "The possibilities are endless."


	8. Chapter 8

The fortress hasn't changed much. The most notable difference being the very blatant lack of people. The courtyard stands still and nearly silent; the only sound being the gentle crackle of burning wood from the braziers around the yard and the sharp echo of a number of dogs near by. It's all rather uncanny, he decides as he shakes the chill from his spine and takes the stairs up to the main hall. One would think that at least some people would choose to stay behind; even if it is no longer the base of the Inquisition, it is still a hearty fortress and primarily, one with a roof on it. He did by a small contingent of guards on his way in; mostly dwarves. Scout Harding had been the one to greet him personally with an arrow nocked and aimed at his face. She was quick to apologize when he dropped his hood, but he was glad that El'una was still being looked out for.

The emptiness of the fortress is further impressed by the hall that is completely void of life. Just like outside, Skyhold is mostly the same inside; he glances up and smiles wryly as he remembers that he helped El'una pick the curtains that still catch the breeze quaintly, despite the dust that has accumulated on them. The furniture is where it has always been with the exception of the Inquisitor's throne. No longer a brazen symbol in the centre of the room that more or less scruffed your attention and set it to stare obediently with little room for argument, it is set off to the side of the dias now. Under a black sheet, impressive spokes and curved legs only just give it away for what it is.

A simple table has taken the place of the throne of the Inquisitor, along with a chair of matching description. From afar, Dorian can see that it is cluttered with heavy volumes, rolls upon rolls of parchment and more than a few dirty dishes. A deck of cards has spilled off the edge and onto the floor, and there are a number of scarves and coats slung willy-nilly off the back of the chair, lending a twinge of delirium to the cluttered space: El'una certainly appears to be spending a lot of time doing… whatever it is she's doing over there.

The massive room feels distinctly abandoned without the typical hoarde of chatty Orlesians and people of all description taking up space, sometimes to the point where it was difficult to carve a clear path through the place. He is reminded of how it looked when they first came to Skyhold. Sure, the walls aren't caving in and there (probably) aren't bats living in the flue, but the braziers inside the hall aren't lit, and that detail alone robs so much warmth and life from the cavernous hall. Scattered candles are all there are now to aid the dusty sunlight to illuminate the place. It makes him feel surprisingly sad, and he finds himself wondering what he thought he would expect upon his arrival: Everything has changed.

He looks to find her in the place that seems the most apparent, and as usual, his intuition does him credit.

She is in the rotunda, a level down from the library where he could be found on a typical day. The scent of the place is the first thing to hit him as he pushes open the door and a warm smile pulls at his lips. Some scents are ingrained in a person forever, and even the slightest lick of a scent on the breeze will launch them back to a time and place that can never be forgotten. This is one of those scents: Musty parchment, dry leather and dust mingled oily candles and whatever strange substances Solas used to crush up to create his pigments. And inevitably... the crow shit. Never any escaping that. But even factoring in the birds, this was where he found friendship and a sense of self, and in all truthfulness, the happiest times of his life so far.

This is the first place he's seen in and around Skyhold so far that has changed considerably. Interesting. He thought she might have at least tried to burn the place to the ground once everyone left, and he's a little surprised that he hasn't seen any telltale scorch marks indicating attempted arson.

"You've redecorated." He says, and El'una's form straightens from the table she's standing at. Her dark hair dances around her in time with the whirl of her skirts as she all but pirouettes around in a familiar flurry of gently jangling charms. Her expression is initially one of laughable, slack-jawed shock, muddied up by a touch of fear, but it rapidly morphs into a wide smile as comprehension dawns. He smiles too, for he will never, ever tire of making her smile. She hurtles towards him, bare feet slapping the stone ground as she closes the distance between them and embraces him with a vigour that threatens to upend him.

"Dorian!" She breathes, her voice becoming a grunt when he returns her embrace tenfold, groaning a little as he lifts her off her feet. "I'm so glad to see you!"

"As am I, but we can't be surrounded by mirrors all the time, can we?" He grins into the mass of hair that has fallen into his face and is tickling his nose terribly. She slides back down to the floor, but she remains wrapped tightly around him.

"It is so, so very good to see you." She says into his shoulder, and he believes it. It's curious, he thinks, how just being around a person can be so elating, even after so long. One of lesser social grooming might take her by the shoulders and tilt their head back in laughter, pausing only to remark on how wonderful she is. He's always cared little for the way things are supposed to be, so he does exactly that.

After so many minutes of embracing, laughing, and shaking their heads at how foolish they must look, El'una regains some focus. She parts from him with a delighted toss of her head and turns to doff what she was holding in her hand on the table; a small crystal on a thong that clatters amongst the other curious objects that litter the space that once belonged to someone else who also scattered the table with oddities.

"What have we here?" He asks, stepping closer to examine, ever captured by his curiousity.

There are a number of crystals, not unlike the one she had tossed. Laying among these are some stones, a few sewing needles and what looks to be a collection of bones from small animals; birds, rodents, cats and the like. He picks up a bird skull and eyes it, wrinkling his nose. "I know the Inquisition no longer exists, but I'm sure there's someone around who can find you something proper to eat."

She plucks the skull from his fingers with an expression of mock displeasure. "If anything is missing around here it's your scathing wit, Master Pavus." She goads, setting the skull carefully back amongst the other bones. "It is… only something new I have been studying."

He picks up a book that lays open on the edge of the table and leafs confidently through it, "Ah yes, I see. Seeing magic, is it? Scrying? Fascinating, if you have the patience to apply it practically, I suppose. Don't see much of this back home… at least, nothing as stripped down. Anyone in Tevinter who professes to 'see' doesn't bother doing it without the aid of an outrageously dramatic setup and a crystal orb bigger than Varric's head since he made the bestseller list four months ago." He chuckles, amused at himself, and returns the book to the table. "Interesting premise behind the magic itself, though. Old stuff. Could be of use to people, but as far as I understand, it takes a lot of focus and time to get right, and there's only so much one could do with the ability to know that the rival Magister they're feuding with is currently taking a shit."

El'una smiles humorlessly, "I would actually think that might be incredibly useful, depending on your aims."

"Yes, well, nothing is ever simple back home." He adds with the quirk of an eyebrow.

"And how are things going back in the Imperium? I trust you have the Magesterium in the palm of your hand?" El'una asks, pulling at the straps of Dagna's newest prosthetic arm as she speaks; this one is made of silverite, and is less heavy than previous versions, but it still feels leaden and unnatural: The fingers don't move, and it is purely ornamental. She could bludgeon someone to death with it if she wanted, but that's really the only useful application she can think of. She drops it on the table with a 'clunk,' happy to be free of it.

"Do you do that often? I don't think I shall ever get used to it." He mentions, staring humorously at the forearm El'una had just removed from her person. He continues over her amused chortle. "There isn't the faintest hope of an answer to your question without first tracking down a bottle of wine. I trust you haven't drank the place dry?"

"Not while I held out hope that you might show up someday. Looks like I was right." She smiles again and the expression curves deeply around her face with an authenticity that makes him feel for the elf: When was the last time she smiled like that, standing in this room? She grabs his hand and pulls him out of the room, out into the main hall and towards the cellars.

"I see that you've been keeping busy at least." He remarks, following her down the stairs, into the depths of Skyhold. He makes a disgusted little sound at one point and flaps a cobweb out of his face.

"Sorry!" El'una says, looking over her shoulder, wincing. "Busy is an understatement. I mean… I have a lot to do, but I've been just really trying to get a handle on things, you know?" She wags the stump of her arm through the air and laughs at her own joke while he finds himself groaning exasperatedly. "Here I was, under the impression that I was doomed to a life of mediocrity without my arm." She lifts her hand through the air and the extinguished torches lining the walls of the narrow hallway burst to life, all of them burning strongly with the exception of two or three that smoke a bit sadly but never fully immolate. El'una hisses between her teeth at her failure. "Ah! So close!"

"I can see that you've recovered from said mediocrity, and put your free time to good use." He remarks, and they resume walking and he trails his fingers through the fire as the go.

"I don't need a staff! And I'm not helpless either." She explains, and although she remains cool, there is pride written all over her face. "I thought being forced to re-learn magic without one was going to be the death of me. It became clear to me only the other day on the journey back from Redcliffe: I don't think anyone needs a staff." She more or less topples through a door with the same bizarre grace she has always possessed and he follows her into Skyhold's wine cellar which she is also kind enough to illuminate with a movement.

He plants a hand on one hip, moving his other through the air in a similar movement to El'una's, trying to fathom exactly how exhausted he would be after pulling off such a feat. "A novel and dangerous concept if you're right. I would like to say I believe you, El'una, but if what you say is true, the ages old scientific premise of casting magic is wrong."

"And always has been." El'una points out. "And will continue to be so long as it is perceived that way. I should be shaking and fainting, possibly even sick with exertion. I was for the longest time: I almost passed out a few days ago moving a small object from the ground to my hand." He shakes his head with an earnest appreciation underlying the motion: Even the most talented Magister would at least be inclined to sit down for a moment after casting such magic without a staff. Fire is tricky; fire not only sheds light, but it also emits heat and burns that which it touches. Whatever weakness in magical theory she has discovered, she is exploiting it to the utmost; something that both concerns and impresses him.

"We need a staff, right? Something material that is a conduit to the Fade and allows us to channel its power through the Veil efficiently as opposed to just… wrenching what we need through with force: Something that can be both exhausting, and unpredictable." She stoops before a row of bottles and carefully selects one, blowing a good deal of dust from it before tucking it under her arm. "So those of us who discovered ages ago that we can tap into the Fade and its mana, realized that sometimes it happens accidentally, or leads to disastrous results, or sometimes doesn't work at all. To counter that, we discovered bones, dead branches, and crystals we'd find in our travels: Things that have existed longer than life itself. We carved runes into the wood and fixed bones and crystals to the ends and we convinced ourselves that in doing so, it was the only way we could ever hope to control magic efficiently." She snatches his hand again, and whisks out of the room, up the stairs at a frenzied pace. "In the meantime, we conveniently overlooked that we are in fact the best link to the Fade there is."

"In what sense?"

"When we die, over time, what's left of us becomes the grass and soil. Trees and flowers grow from what used to be a person, and in a way, what composed that person continues on, nourishing the climate around it, even in death. If Solas tells it true, he didn't create this world: It already existed. He just put a Veil between it and the Fade. He didn't destroy the world: It continued to live on, but differently; elves began aging and dying off, marvels were made extinct, and humans started cropping up more frequently. The Veil separates this world from what made it what it once was, and as I mentioned, people did discover they could still reach through the Veil and use mana. How did magic continue to exist if it was supposedly locked away?" She continues at a feverish pace that leads him to believe she's more pleased than anything that she finally has someone to dump this all on who can actually keep up with her. "'Because of weaknesses in the Veil,' you say. Sometimes. But in truth, because we are descended from what was left over; from people and things that lived and breathed the Fade. Memory is powerful. Obviously the world as it was morphed and changed and became a shadow of what it once was, but life persisted, as per Solas' intent. We are the old bones and the dead branches and the ageless crystals. We are physically built from the remnants of an ancient world that, according to Solas had a connection to the Fade that was so natural that reaching out and interacting with it was an effortless act." She comes to an abrupt halt as they reach the main hall again and she sets the wine on a table and turns back to him, looking so impossibly enlightened that it makes him smile.

"It is no longer effortless for us; we have this invisible repellant between ourselves and the Fade. We believe that we are not strong enough, that our connection to the Fade is not what it used to be." She grasps him by the shoulder and leans in close, "Dorian; just like everything else - it's all bullshit." She whispers slyly. "Our ability to manipulate the Fade is what it always was, because energy does not die. It lives on and becomes something else, and over time, all of that ancient connection to the Fade never died. It just became something else: It became the veins in plants and the marrow in our bones. It is very much alive… our ancestors just never gave it the chance to wake up properly before we entirely forgot about it and resigned ourselves to abandonment." They return to the altered rotunda and she passes the wine to him, "If you wouldn't mind?" She asks, withdrawing a corkscrew from one of the many pockets hidden within the folds of her skirt. He accepts the tool and the wine with a wry smile.

"You really must stop looking so impressed with yourself. Your head might topple you over if it grows any larger." He teases. "I think I'll stick with my staff; I do look so impressive when I'm using it. I just wouldn't feel the same without it." He flashes her a smile and tugs the cork free from the wine with a small 'pop!'

"But it makes sense, right? I haven't the slightest idea if I'm articulating this properly." She sighs and runs her hand through her hair. "It's all about the rules. We have been wrong about everything; and that's not even just counting the Dalish: We were all wrong. How could we not be? We had no context, no way of knowing exactly what happened. The rules we have made for ourselves since the dawn of this world are: We-Made-These-Up-Because-We-Actually-Have-No-Idea-About-Anything. Solas gave us more context about the why's and how's of the world in twenty minutes than we have ever gleaned over the course of our entire existence. Those rules are no longer binding because we now know why they cannot be enforced."

He laughs, taking a pull directly from the bottle before passing it off to El'una. "An attitude that would spread like a plague within Tevinter, I'm afraid." His face becomes serious, "I must ask; what do you plan to do with this potentially catastrophic information?"

"Stop him." She replies, swallowing a mouthful of spicy wine. "I won't kill him, and I won't fight him, but I need to be able to pull off things that were previously deemed impossible by the confines of the old rules. This magic is going to change the world, but the world isn't ready for it just yet. Why did you come?" She blurts suddenly, as if it had only just occurred to her that he was actually there.

"There has been strange activity in my homeland in regard to our friend, actually. I am told that curious and sneaky looking pockets of elves are cropping up around the ruins of the ancient elves, particularly in the region near the forest of Arlathan." He paces towards the walls of the room as he speaks, and lifts the edge of a black curtain with the tip of his fingers, surveying what lies beneath it. He almost makes mention of it, but decides not to, turning back to El'una instead. "I understand what it is he intends to do, and your wishes to avoid crying wolf and causing widespread chaos, but I'm concerned about the Imperium's reaction to a large group of elves roaming the countryside unchecked: Especially if they don't belong to anybody."

El'una nods, understanding. If the Imperium were to attack or in any way endanger Solas' agents, she doesn't doubt his retribution would be subtle, but brutal. How does one explain to an entire nation that has thrived on the enslavement of the race that they need to leave the damn elves alone?Guessing why Solas has taken an interest in Tevinter is plain enough to her though.

"I couldn't destroy them. Not completely." She admits quietly, her eyes darting to the murals hidden under yards of black fabric. "I wanted to. I even tried." She explains in answer to his perplexed expression when he lifted the curtains away from the wall and saw the deep gouges that marred a portion of the wall. "I didn't even want to come back here, knowing that it was his all along, and I certainly didn't want to be surrounded in… in…" her voice flags and she waves a hand, "Memories." She gladly accepts the bottle of wine that he is now holding out to her and she drinks deeply. "Taking an axe to them wounded me deeper than the plaster, I'm afraid. I hate them. I hate every line; every misplaced brush-stroke; every inch of these walls I hate more than I've ever hated anything. But… I can't bring myself to unmake them. Why can't the fool look at the world the same way?" She half smiles at him then, and draws herself up after what looked to be a short internal struggle. "You came all the way here to tell me you're concerned by a wolf at your doorstep? This still works just fine, you know." She lifts the pendant at her neck with a finger.

"Yes and no," He admits. "I came here to tell you, and then take you with me."

El'una snorts, deeply amused at the path this conversation has branched down. She flops into the chair that Solas so often occupied in his own time here, by all definitions looking just as world-weary as he used to. "You must be joking. Take me, the former Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste, and exiled Dalish elf to the Imperium? I'll be murdered within a fortnight." She scoffs, picking up a pendulum and twirling it around her finger, and then back again.

His eyes twinkle he knows that El'una understands there will be no refusing him; he's thought this through, and once he has thought something through, there's no arguing out of it. "Maybe before the Inquisition, back when you didn't have a handsome and talented Magister at your disposal. Not to say that people won't try to murder you if given the chance, but we'll just have to make sure they won't get one, won't we?" He leans his palms against the table, still holding the bottle of wine with one hand. "I need you to get these agents of his out of my homeland before another war starts. He thinks he's being smart and stealthy, pulling strings between us and the Qunari so we might keep each other occupied with fighting, but Tevinter has been at war for too long to let such things go unnoticed. I fear for my people, El'una, and if you happen to find him, don't youdare ever tell him I said that."

"Said what?" El'una frowns, wrinkling her nose. "He'd find the fact that you care so deeply about your people commendable, regardless of who they are." He sees her balk slightly at her own haste to come to his defense even now.

"No, no." He straightens and waves a dismissive hand, "The fact that I'm afraid of him. The gloating would be endless. Ugh." He slides the bottle towards El'una and crosses his arms, "And the opportunity to tell him that may arise; I deeply suspect he is inside our borders."

"I'm not going looking for him." El'una shakes her head, "Not yet. I'm not ready. I know what he's looking for, and I will purge his people from the area, but I won't seek a conflict with him personally."

"Will you ever truly be ready? How ready could a person be to openly negotiate with an ancient elf bent on the destruction of the Veil and thousands of lives along with it?"

"There's an answer to that question somewhere." El'una responds, "I just don't have it yet."

He shrugs, placing faith in the impression he gets that El'una is not giving everything away at face value: Very well, she may keep her secrets. If it results in her saving the world, what care do I have? "If you say so. I've known you long enough to wager a guess that you already know a trick or two that'll make him positively melt in your capable hands." He grins lecherously and El'una throws a stone at him in playful retort.

"Would that it were so simple." She jests.

He wags a finger at her then, and she appropriately laughs at the words that follow. "You can never underestimate the power of a well-timed seduction. Ask half of the Magisterium."

"It seems I'll have to make a point of it if I am to accompany you." She manages between bouts of laughter. "As predicted, you appear to have a plan, and I hope that it involves more substance than 'seduce Fen'Harel and tell him to swan off.'"

"Like I said, never rule it out." He advises before continuing. "Using my sway as a Magister, I can get you into the Imperium. The real issue is going to be assuring you any measure of freedom after we reach Minrathous. I can't personally accompany you at all times, due to all of the important meetings and parties I must attend, and our problem isn't exactly in the city: We need to come up with a way for you to roam freely without being recognized and assassinated, or noticed as an elf and consequently enslaved."

"I am not posing as a slave." She declares abruptly. He can see that the impulse was wicked and it won in its will to become words, but he understands her determination: She had not learned what she had of slavery only to assume its mantle once again.

He rolls his eyes and his moustache bristles ever so slightly in the huff of air that is expelled from his mouth. "I was thinking only initially to get you over the borders, but alright. Have it your way. We're going to have to learn quickly then: The longer his people are poking around ancient ruins, the more attention they'll draw. Considering your discoveries of late, however, learning shouldn't be much of a problem."

"Learning what?"

"Those sharp ears have got to go."


	9. Chapter 9

"A part of me is convinced that this is brilliance, another part can't shake the feeling that it's a ridiculous farce."

"It's a glamour." Dorian impresses, "Of course it's a ridiculous farce; that's the point."

"You mentioned before that people in your homeland typically don't use this sort of magic because they're too proud to dabble in outward concealment. I'm beginning to think they don't bother with it because it's both exhausting and stupid." She remarks blandly, opening her palm to reveal a charming sprig of alyssum, conjured from thin air. "For you." She says, holding her hand out to Dorian.

"A bit of focus, El'una? You're supposed to be my distant and long-dead cousin, not a gardener."

Her eyes narrow darkly and she pelts him with the flowers, "And who's to say that Lady Evelyn Trevelyan doesn't enjoy gardening as a pastime?"

Dorian smirks at her retort, coming back easily with one of his own. "Careful, Lady Trevelyan. When you get all worked up like that, your ears get all… pointy. It's quite odd."

She groans and clenches her teeth in frustration: She wasn't jesting when she said this was both exhausting and stupid; even with her handle on staffless magic, a glamour requires constant maintenance and concentration for it to work effectively. It isn't the same as shapeshifting, which requires two tremendous exhaustions of power; one to transform, and one to turn back. A glamour is only an illusion cast over oneself to give themselves a different outwards appearance. It requires drawing power consistently from the Fade and only works so long as those it is being worked on have reason to believe it: Another likely reason why it is so rarely used in the modern age. She makes a fist and her knuckles pop as she breathes heavily through her nose and turns back to face the large mirror set in the corner of her chambers. She tosses a glance over her shoulder at Dorian who is lounging imperiously on the settee, enjoying a glass of wine.

"Must be nice." She quips. "Getting to watch me do all the work."

Dorian shrugs and reaches for the bottle sitting on the nearby end table. "I'm not the one that needs a disguise. Besides, even if I did have to use this magic, it wouldn't last for long. Between the two of us, you're the only one who has mastered the expenditure of limitless mana."

"I think 'mastered' is being generous. I fell asleep last night at half seven."

In order to pass herself off as Evelyn Trevelyan, she had to confidently maintain her focus regardless of what came up. Over the past fortnight it had been a course of building up the skill required to maintain the glamour while performing routine, day to day tasks. First came standing still, then came walking around Skyhold, then came trickier things like eating meals and carrying on conversations. There was a particularly nasty period where Dorian incessantly prodded her about Solas, asking a series of extremely personal questions that ranged from topics that were downright embarrassing, to accusations that filled her with guilt. It wasn't nice, it wasn't kind, and it wasn't Dorian, but the last thing either of them wanted was for El'una to lose her handle on her emotions in a tense situation with some bureaucrat. The former Inquisitor materializing in the middle of a room full of Magisters would surely spell disaster.

She sighs heavily and closes her eyes, drawing on the Fade, connecting with the initial resistance she is met with from the Veil. It pushes against her intent, serving its purpose as a barrier between herself and the magic that lay beyond it, but instead of pushing back, she relaxes her pressure, recalling the old words and ancient songs that live in the windblown grass and the stillness of freshly fallen snow: The same words and songs thrum in her own heart and come from the same place. I am the same, but not the same. I am older.

There is a metaphysical shudder as The Veil acquiesces to her truth and politely dissipates in the path of her reach, allowing her to draw upon the magic necessary to not only make her look like a shem, but to also falsify an arm.

When she opens her eyes again, her connection to the Fade remains strong and consistent, but she is staring into the face of a woman of similar age. Her hair is pale and falls past her waist and her eyes are wide and blue. Her skin is sun kissed and scarless and just like her own, free of any trace of the vallaslin. She's a beautiful woman, well suited to the rich fabrics and finery that adorn her. The convincing disguise does little to dispel the guilt at the fact that she is hiding behind a dead woman's face.

A pang of guilt sweeps over her at the thought of the real Lady Trevelyan; the one that died in the explosion at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. She had not met her formally, but she had seen the noblewoman and her contingent of Circle mages in passing during the council. She was a proud looking woman; fierce in the eyes and straight in the back. How she was going to live up to such a presence with any consistency was a mystery to her. The real Lady Trevelyan likely never imagined that her legacy would be an elf reviving her through means of falsification.

She lifts her left arm and looks down, wiggling perfectly manicured and existent fingers. It still feels strange, having an arm in one sense or another after learning to be without for so many months. When Dorian first explained to her that the glamour could also falsify an arm, she was elated at the prospect of having the limb back, even if she had subverted the need of a staff. She was surprised to find that she had more difficulty with it than she expected: She keeps forgetting it exists; talks with her right hand only when conversing, leaving the left to hang limply by her side ridiculously. The day before last, she closed it in a door and it vanished.

It functions like a real arm to an extent - A real arm composed of magic and intent. Like the rest of the glamour, it only exists as long as she continues manifesting its existence on other people's senses. The problem with constructs composed of magic, is that they tend to be fragile to things that are not also composed of magic. Dorian had given her the go ahead to use the arm; eat and drink with it, move it, open doors with it, but to also favour it and attempt to avoid anything that might be a sudden shock to the fabric of the magic; no throwing punches, no exasperated slamming of fists, no physical blocking: It was to be treated as if it was made of spun sugar.

"We need to consider the eventuality that I may have to fight like this. At the very least I need to be able to act like a mage." She says, clenching and unclenching her left hand. Although she no longer requires a staff, having the arm back in one form or another does create a longing in her to hold one again.

"One thing at a time." Dorian reminds her. "Before you need worry about roasting adversaries as my cousin, you must first learn to act like her. I mean nothing by it of course, but your social decorum needs some work."

A derisive huff of air falls from lips that aren't her own. "Might I remind you that I charmed the pants off of the Winter Palace? Without this." She motions up and down her figure.

"Yes, well. You must forgive me if I can't remember clearly. By the end of the night I don't even think I knew where my own pants ended up, let alone anyone else's." Dorian smirks over the rim of his goblet. "Honestly though, you look ravishing outwardly, but people are going to wonder why this stunning specimen from the Marches sounds like an elf that has lived her entire life in the back of an aravel, hunting shems."

She lets the jab slide and instead turns away from the mirror, crossing the room to the settee with long, purposeful strides that are considerably different than her typically short, somewhat scattered rhythm. When she reaches Dorian's side she closes her eyes and smiles politely, dropping into a deep, sweeping curtsy. She even has her fingers rounded and the tips pressed daintily against each other.

"Magister Pavus, it is so kind of you to welcome me into your home. I hope the duration of my stay at your estate is no hassle to your good graces and hospitality. If I may; could I entreat the Master for a sip of wine? The road was terribly dusty and I fear that I am utterly parched." She speaks in a deeper, raspier tone, but it is still her voice. Her slight Dalish lilt is replaced with long, sticky vowels and snappy consonants. Long eyelashes lift, and she blinks slowly, straightening from her curtsey.

Dorian's mustache twitches from side to side in what might be annoyance.

"Very well." He snips, passing her the wine goblet, which is in turn accepted with the most graceful of fingers. "You've certainly got a presence about you despite all your years in the Circle, Lady Trevelyan."

"Don't patronize me, Dorian." She says in a voice that is still unfamiliar. "I haven't been surrounded by nobles and their posturing for the past years to be so ignorant as to not pick up a few things." Lady Trevelyan passes the goblet of wine to her left hand with more deliberation than it should take and stretches her right palm out the the Magister in front of her. A beautiful, deep blue delphinium weaves into existence from nothingness. "My thanks for the wine." She purrs, tipping the flower into Dorian's hand. "To the yard now? My pets are hungry."

* * *

I have created some sort of monster.

The thought leaves him be long enough so he can throw up a barrier strong enough to repel the wave of fire that is hurtling towards him. He hears El'una laugh and he straightens and recovers to see the figure of his dead cousin enrobed inside a web of flame that is composed of more than simple pillars of fire: No. She's gone the full on theatrical, bleeding-heart Tevinter path of making each stream of fire into a different animal: There are fish, and halla, and serpents gamboling through the air around her where her hands conduct them. Her face positively glows as she watches with delight.

She will fit right in with the culture of the Imperium if she keeps this up. She will be the fucking belle of the ball.

He narrowly dodges the hound that has made its sole priority in life to bowl him over. The pup (if the massive beast can be called that,) skids to a halt and drops its front haunches, tail slicing through the air with a sense of barely contained joy: At least one of them was having a good time. He has a hard time faulting her for this stroke of madness: These creatures will grow to be loyal till death and that is something El'una is in great need of. He would not revel to be at the receiving end of those jaws when these animals are fully grown, hungry, and beholden to a small, angry elven woman.

"How certain are you that this is wise?" He pants, remorseful of the amount of sweat he is covered in. He warily side-eyes the hound, who is circling him threateningly again. "Don't get me wrong: You look fantastic. You are fantastic. You've clearly got a grip on all of this, but it leaves one to wonder exactly how safe it is for one to be poking around the Fade with the mentality of 'Hang the Veil! I do as I please!'"

El'una's hands drop, and the fire does too. It dissipates on the ground around her, leaving the grass smoking slightly. "Oh, no it's not like that at all. You mean demons, right?" She laughs lightly before breaking into a rather harsh fit of coughing that takes her a few moments to recover from. He feels his brow press in concern. "You can't have forgotten any of Solas' numerous 'Demons are just Spirits' speeches." She teases after catching her breath.

"For someone so staunchly set against his actions, you certainly seem to be using a lot of his knowledge." He observes; it's true. Nearly every concept she's proven in practice or mentioned since his arrival harkens back to Solas' own theories and beliefs. He would know: He was constantly privy above the rotunda, listening to the elf tell El'una all manner of concepts that at the time were simple to dismiss with a quietly whispered, "Lunacy," as he flipped another page of a book from his comfortable armchair in the library.

"Why not? It's the knowledge of not only an ancient being, but of a world that thrived prior to our own." Still sounding rather hoarse, she takes a long drink from her waterskin and wipes her mouth with the back of her arm. "They're around, absolutely: Purpose, Curiousity, Temperance and more. Duty is especially piqued by my actions of late; but if I were I to drag Duty through the Veil as it is, it would likely become Rage. I am not seeking to draw them into this world, however; I am happy to let them observe from afar. If they choose to pass through the veil, it is at their own behest. The magic I use today is magic from a time where Demons did not exist because there was no Veil for them to cross through and become twisted by an incorrect purpose. I figure I'm at little risk of becoming an abomination. So long as my aims remain noble, I am in no danger."

He presses his lips together, and pours some water over his head before he speaks, unable to ignore his concern any further; her logic is far from sound and her quarry is dangerous ground as it stands. "The more you talk about it all, the more you sound like him." He states. "You claim you have no interest in confronting him, but with every spell I watch you cast, I can't help but understand why your people used to be viewed as gods. I'm afraid that there is too much knowledge at your disposal… too much potential for divergence." He leans his staff against the fence and lifts his hand; fire dances between his fingertips before forming into a perfect sphere that rolls in his outstretched palm. "This," he says, looking down at the sphere of fire, "Is casual. There is little thought or effort in this act. Any mage can do this out of boredom to pass the time." He places his other hand on top of the sphere and raises it, causing the orb to balloon in size until it is nearly two feet across. "This, on the other hand, is exhausting. I could put motion behind it, and I could almost surely kill a man with it if I wanted to. But…" He falters, his nose creasing as he fights to maintain the ball of fire. "Making that happen would almost surely kill me."

"Stop." El'una demands darkly. "Dorian. Let it go." When he doesn't and she sees the beads of sweat snaking down his neck past his collar, she acts instead: With little more than a blink from her, he feels his magic sent away, scattering back to the Fade by a will stronger than his own; the space between his hands is empty and he is gasping for air while she stands before him, breathing with ease. He feels his knees weaken and the ground meets them a moment later. Her arm is around his back and her warm hazel eyes are gazing into his with concern; she looks like herself again.

"I want you to succeed." He concedes. "There is no one better than you in this world as a saviour for such a fucked up load of people, but… I worry for you." He hates the crack that invades his voice at this admittance, but pushes on regardless. "Where is this path going to lead you? It is a path that I have seen more friends walk than I care to admit." He laughs bitterly then at the thoughts of Alexius that have been lurking on the edge of his subconscious since El'una had related the truth of her unnatural progress to him: Progress is all well and good, but too much and at one time has the tendency to gain more muscle and hunger than one can handle before it is too late.

El'una coughs again deeply in her chest and she shoves away the curious hound that has plodded over and began sniffing invasively at Dorian's ear. "Stop that." She chides the dog softly. She wraps her right hand around his wrist and rocks back on her heels, raising them both to their feet. "Dorian," she says sincerely, squeezing his hand, "Please don't fear for me. I fear for myself in large enough quantities already. I… I don't know what else to do. How can I have any hope of getting close to him if I can't measure up to him? How might I parlay with him if I can't even defend myself if I have to?"

"Answer me only one more thing."

"Anything." She pledges.

He gazes firmly at her face; the face of a woman in her mid-thirties, bare-faced despite her origin, with eyes rimmed with dark circles. She looks exhausted.

"If you are unable to meet your ends; if you cannot dissuade our friend. Will you be the one to kill him?"

El'una draws a long, shaking breath, but does not break eye contact.

"If all other options are exhausted, if there is no hope in my course and all that I aim to achieve is lost… yes. It will be my hands that are soaked with his blood. If I must, I will kill Solas myself." She releases his hand from hers and turns away, the last sight of her face a mask of misery. "I am ready to leave when you are, Dorian. I am comfortable enough in my ability to maintain this facade."

She departs across the yard alone and the hound remains by his side. It stretches its muzzle skyward and lets out a baleful howl that Dorian thinks he hears returned by a beast far outside the castle walls.


	10. Chapter 10

Nothing about their relationship had ever been deliberate or well thought through.

The stolen kiss in the Fade was an action wrought by an impulsiveness that would remain constant throughout the duration of their time together. It was the of many instances where desire ultimately won out over any intelligible thought. She might have heeded reason and it's ever-weakening call… had it mattered at the time.

It mattered little now.

The last thing she said before he had pulled her close and covered her mouth with his own was, "Adding nuts to baked goods is a fucking sin."

She laughs into the kiss as she leans against the table in the centre of the room. Paintbrushes roll off the sides and clatter to the stone floor beneath them as she braces herself against the table and Solas makes space for his thigh between her legs. "This is… not the reaction I expected from that comment." She breathes, parting from their embrace only long enough to complete her thought before eagerly returning to his touch.

"No." He states, claiming her lips again with a fervour that makes Fade-tongue pale deeply in comparison. His long fingers play up her sides and she is overcome by the sensations that take her body, along with the lingering desire to laugh at what spurred the situation to begin with; she feels light, tingling; brimming with both desire and laughter that threaten to overwhelm her at any moment. It is the headiest rush she has ever experienced, and that fact is what prompts her to scoot her hips forward so that she may placate the need between her legs against Solas' own. The connection earns her a slight groan from Solas and his attention is taken to her neck where he gladly tastes her skin. His fingers weave themselves into her hair with the gentlest pull and reveal more of her skin to his mouth. She feels his digits coaxing her hand from the table and she follows his lead, pressing the flat of her palm to his open hand as he suckles her neck, driving waves of ecstasy through her entire being.

"You are… you are marvelous." He claims between small kisses that trail up her neck. "Bizarre." He purrs. "Unique. I can't..." The last words are whispered into the shell of her ear with such a hunger that it is all she can do to not launch the pair of them away from the table and against the freshly applied coat of paint behind them.

"Then don't." She retorts, "Don't stop." She implores, grinding herself against his thigh with a renewed desperation. The night is late, but it's not that late: At any given moment Dorian could tumble through the door, fresh from The Herald's Rest. She searches inwardly, and is astonished to find that she hasn't a fuck to give about consequences. Not now.

He laughs now: A low and permeating tone that strikes something deep and dark within her. There is a jingling sound as his hand ghosts overtop of her skirts offering the lightest of touches to her womanhood which is nestled almost frustratingly under so many layers of fabric. A frustrated hiss is rent from her lips only to be quickly silenced by the gentle placement of teeth at the lobe of her ear by her lover.

" _Shhhh…_ " He soothes, though as her head rolls back in exasperation she catches a glimpse of the amusement in Solas' eyes.

"Shhhh." She repeats rather harshly then, lifting her head and grabbing him by the front of his shirt, consuming him in a bruising kiss that ignites the entire rigmarole anew. She leverages against the deceivingly sturdy table and grants herself the momentum to push away, backing the pair of them gracelessly against the scaffolding set against the wall. From above she can hear jars wobble precariously and another couple paintbrushes tip-tap onto to the ground when Solas' back strikes the wooden frame.

He exhales heavily through his nose, making a noise deep back in his throat that brings to mind the sound one might make when enjoying a sumptuous feast.

"You feel good." He observes. "You smell good… you are…" He tears away and meets her eyes with the most genuine gaze she has ever seen. He takes her in for a moment before surprising her with a rather broad and goofy smile. "You are just... _good_."

Unable to take it anymore, El'una lays her hands on him for the first time; intimacy has always been something earned and not taken ostensibly. She would sooner have someone touch her first so that she may know she is welcome to do the same. Things like hands and hugs… simple, uncomplicated touches are so easily dispensed, but to infringe on someone's space any further than that is an action that required permission.

The touch is welcome, and her fingers come to rest on his shoulder, where the fabric of his tunic is warm and soft to the touch. Her other hand snakes around his waist after meandering briefly across his back, testing the realness of the scenario.

She is in his arms, and he in hers. There is an overwhelming but undeniable sense of need permeating the room and it occurs to her that this is the intersection that every pair of infatuated dreamers arrives at eventually: It is a moment than can last for hours, days, moments or months: It is the unspoken question that lingers and hangs until it is answered with either acquiesce or denial: _Do you want me? Will you have me?_

Her body undulates against his and each point of contact sets fire to her flesh.

 _Please say you will._

She feels him shudder against her movement and her skirts sing again as Solas deftly reaches under them. Fingers, light and articulate dictate paths over the flesh of her thigh and she gasps at the sudden intrusion. Her eyes close and sparks dance in the blackness on the inside of her eyelids as he thumbs the juncture of her legs with a touch most delicate. Breath falls from her lungs and in the form of yet another ardent laugh: She can't help it. Besides being completely enraptured by what's currently happening, she is for the most part filled with the most natural and pure sensation of _happiness_ she has ever felt.

" _Yes._ " He promises her and she all but uproots herself from his touch, whirling away, a mess of flushed skin and disarranged skirts. The wetness on her thighs is only encouraged as her eyes slide over his figure and what remains hidden by a maddening amount of clothing… so within reach but… _not here_. She steals his hand into her own and begins to haul him from the rotunda but he stops her with a palm against the door before she can fling it open and spirit him away.

"Are we?..." He asks, his face serious for only a moment before she replies without hesitation.

"Yes." She pants, nodding violently, her face splitting into a foolish grin that he instantly mirrors, much to her elation. "I… I believe so." And she wrenches the door open and pulls him through, his laughter blessedly chasing her through the abrupt path she carves through the empty Main Hall.

They crash through the door to the Inquisitor's chambers and he pushes her into the corner before they can even ascend the stairs.

"This is stupid." She half laughs. "This is foolish."

Solas nods his agreement as he draws his tongue across the cleft of her breasts.

"Very." He concedes, losing himself in her scent.

"It's _amazing._ " She notes as he writes a symphony with his lips across her collarbone. "I blame you entirely."

"Who would dare guess that baked goods might bring a pair of people together in such a way?" He philosophises, returning his fervor to her lips, drawing them between his teeth and delighting in the blissful whine his action elicits. His hand reclaims its place under her skirts now that they are in private. She emits the lightest of laughs at his touch and begins scrambling for his own clothing.

"I don't want _this_." She announces as her fingers find ample purchase on his tunic so that she may pull it over his head and shoulders with a single efficient movement. The garment drips from her fingers to a pool on the ground and she drags her own top off with as much brevity, ducking under his arm so that she has his back against the wall now. "I didn't want that either." She whispers, drawing the tips of her fingers against his bare chest before they dip down to his abdomen. They dance teasingly within the waistband of his trousers and he'd be of half a mind to return the favour were it not for the precision of her seduction giving him pause: There is a sense of abandon in her actions that is characteristically void in her day-to-day awkward, self conscious attempts at banter. It throws him off, but does little to slake the hunger in his eyes as his lips meet her own once again.

She throws her arms around his shoulders and presses herself against every inch of bare flesh she can reach. It is her turn to plant multiple kisses of varying pressure against his smooth neck and she is egged on by the pleasing sound that falls from his lips at her efforts: It calls to mind the immediate attraction she felt upon first hearing his voice early in the morning, shortly after waking - she _longed_ to hear that sleepy, spaced-out speech in the throes of bliss. She had long wanted to wake up to it.

His chin rests on her shoulder and he is pressing small kisses of his own to what skin he can reach. One hand rises and comes to rest on her round, ripe heart, the other; down her smalls.

Blood is rushing in her ears. She feels oddly disconnected from her body, despite the realness of his fingers inside her.

 _Please._

 _Please let me -_

" _Fenedhis!_ " She pounds her fist into the feather bed under her as her eyes adjust to the darkness and her body realizes the rocking motion of the sea she is carried on. A memory. Nothing more. That fact didn't mean she wanted to leave any less. She would have stayed forever in the memory of their first encounter if she was given the chance: She never felt more free than she did that night, back when every mistaken touch or betrayal of endearment was simple to justify in light of the danger that threatened the world. Impulsive? Yes. Impassioned? Undeniably. But back then, it was easy to ignore those truths by simply apologizing for their lack of discipline until the next time they found themselves accidentally waking up in each other's arms.

At least they were _both_ amply surprised when it became clear that they had fallen in love with each other.

She swears again and reaches for the bottle of wine stowed next to her bed. In doing so, she forgets that she was just asleep, and she is not currently under the guise of Evelyn Trevelyan; she grabs for the bottle by her bedside with a hand that doesn't exist and falls to her side due to the misplacement of momentum. A frustrated groan cuts through the dark and she snatches the bottle with an arm that is fully functional and whole, tearing the cork away with her teeth, still worrying at the sore spot in her heart that is bleeding anew because of her dream.

This is their third day at sea. They will reach harbour in Cumberland by morning-next, according to Dorian: She couldn't be happier at the prospect. The ship and its inherent doldrums give her little cheer and even less freedom. At least in Tevinter she will be able to roam around a vicinity larger than a ship, even if she is masquerading as a dead woman in order to ably do so.

Dim candles sway with the rhythm of the ship's path through the sea and she sits cross legged under the sheets, giving in to the rise and fall under her. She takes the occasional swig of wine as she stares in silence for a long time at the swaying flames. Eventually, she notices that her ears feel warm. Shortly after, her cheeks feel wet. She finally blinks and a withering sob breaks free from her lips.

"No." She says to no one in particular.

"No. I will _not_." She emphasizes firmly, sucking a deep breath in through her mouth that only just brushes her lungs before her frame collapses in a fit of coughing. Desperate gasps punctuate the continuous racket that goes on for far too long. She feels her palms clam up against the sheets she is gripping as her vision goes spotty and she wills herself to calm down and breathe normally. Her heart races, and the muscles in her abdomen ache. She feels the nerves at the back of her throat begin to protest at the abuse they are receiving.

She emits a wretched hack and it is just light enough in the cabin for her to see the small dark flecks that fly from her mouth and strike the white bedsheet. The taste of copper hits her tongue when she licks her lips.

"Fuck." She observes her voice feeling raw and strained. Her head feels light and her entire body tingles unpleasantly.

 _Fuck._


	11. Chapter 11

Dorian had told it true, and they made port in Cumberland the following morning. After a swift ride in a decadent carriage up the Imperial Highway, she and Dorian rested for the night at a luxurious inn in Nevarra.

By this point it was imperative that she remain under the guise of Lady Trevelyan at all times, and despite the initial fear she felt as she bundled the skirts of her voluminous gown into her hand, she thought she did a more than acceptable job of accepting the hand of the carriage driver and daintily unfolding from the vehicle, onto the ground.

They ate and drank in Nevarra and she took to bed at an early hour so as to be well rested in the morning.

With the sunrise comes a new brand of confidence that she had not possessed the night before: Failure wasn't an option before; it is even less of one now. The private upheaval she has suffered over the past couple of days is enlightening despite its implications.

She stands on the veranda of the suite that she and Dorian share and stares at the sun rising across the gold and green plains of Nevarra. She can hear him on the other side of his bedroom door, clattering around, getting ready, buckling clasps and swearing softly in a morning stupor as he does so. She raises the piping hot mug of whatever this odd Nevarran beverage is to her lips and blows, catching the reflection of another woman's face in the black surface of the liquid as she does so.

It's strange, this drink; dark and opaque, it was brought to the lounge of their suite just past dawn this morning by a servant. She wrinkles her nose as she takes a sip; it's earthy, but not in the same way that tea is: It tastes somewhat burnt and a bitterness lingers on her tongue after she swallows. Overall, though, it is not unpleasant. Different, yes. She wonders if they have it in the Imperium as well. She's had two refills already; she feels peculiar.

She covers her mouth with the back of her hand and coughs quietly, bracing her shoulders and keeping her breaths small so as not to alert Dorian. When she regains control over her breathing, she sighs and drops her hand to the railing of the balcony, using it to support her as she stares out over the plains, waiting for her head to stop spinning.

This isn't getting better. She thinks, drawing another sip of warm liquid from the mug; blessedly it assuages her raw throat.

An unsavory conclusion, but one that she can no longer avoid. Ever since she had woken the other night coughing up blood, her condition had not improved. The blood typically only came at night, or early in the morning, but she been plagued by cold sweats and periods of faintness at least thrice since: She'd nearly toppled over upon rising from the dinner table last night.

Luckily for her, Lady Trevelyan was gifted at the fine art of dismissal.

"Would you look at that, dear cousin?" She breathed, gripping the back of her chair while she caught her breath and glanced around at the worried faces surrounding her. "On the move for only four days and I've completely lost my head for wine!" She laughs breathlessly at herself and is relieved when Dorian and the staff present follow her lead and laugh too.

She may be ill, but she's not about to put the burden of knowing that on Dorian: He's concerned enough about her as it is. Too many other things hang in the balance right now, and a sick elf is among the least important of them. What mattered now was getting to Minrathous, getting established, and learning as much as she possibly could in a very short time. Next would be to find Solas' people, drive them away and… and… well. The rest could come later, she decided: If her suspicions were correct, she would need to prepare to wander around some elven ruins herself.

"Cousin!" She calls lightly. "I am ready to depart. I'll head down to the carriage and ensure everything is ready for our journey. Would hate to miss anything because we were in a rush due to your primping." The tone works well enough, and the sentiment is there, but she rolls her eyes at the delivery of it as she turns from the veranda; being Evelyn Trevelyan requires a mincing of words that she has always had little patience for. Speaking like a noblewoman to a stranger isn't so daunting, but it feels alien and strange speaking to her best friend in a manner that she is so unaccustomed to.

"You think you're clever dear Evelyn, but where you have assuredly dressed for appearances alone, you will be eating your words when you learn that I have dressed for both appearance and comfort." His retort is muffled by the door between them, but the hint of amusement is impossible to miss. He isn't wrong either: She constantly catches herself absently fiddling with ties or tugging at the restrictive bodice that she's been shoved into. Beyond that, she isn't sure if the shortness of breath she's experiencing is due to the corset, or something far more concerning.

"We shall have to compare our levels of comfort later then," She replies, pulling a pair of lace gloves over her hands and retrieving her staff, (a handsome instrument crafted from mahogany and polished cherry wood. Perhaps a bit ostentatious for El'una's tastes, but it does suit Lady Trevelyan quite well.) She taps the end of it on the floor twice, and wriggles her fingers around the grip, testing for the most comfortable place to hold it: New staves require breaking in and this one was already unruly to boot. Most staves became malleable by their owners in short order: the components of the item that best channel the Fade need to develop a feel and understanding for the person using it; how they interacted with the magic they were trying to pull through.

She hadn't much of a chance to use this one so far, due to being safe on either a boat or in a carriage, but it felt stranger to her than any other staff she'd ever owned. There was a restlessness in the wood almost as though it itched to move away from her touch at a molecular level. It wasn't unlike the sensation of drawing one's hand over something that is statically charged: The air around it and the wood itself… prickled. If she could sum it up in any hypothesis, she would guess that the material of the staff knew that she had a far deeper and more different connection to the Fade and thus was unable to properly latch on to her intent.

It was naturally confused. Poor thing.

It was mildly inconvenient and uncomfortable to be in close proximity to something that seemed to be constantly humming with static electricity, but the staff was purely for aesthetics and it was a necessity for that reason alone. She didn't even need to cast with it if push came to shove; she would be able to make it look like she was casting with it, and that would be good enough.

"Good morning, Lady Trevelyan." The steward stationed outside their suite greeted, tilting at the waist into a polite bow. El'una dips into a feminine little bow of her own. "I trust you slept well and that everything was to your liking and that of Magister Pavus?"

She closes the door behind her, being very, very careful of the fingers on her left hand.

"Everything was splendid. Your establishment does one's first visit to Nevarra great credit. I am only sad for the fact that I am unable to stay longer." She treats the well groomed steward to a tight and diplomatic smile that reaches her eyes and fills them with warmth. Her staff is raised over her head and slung over her shoulder. "I will make a point of returning." She promises. "There is much of Nevarra I would like to know."

"And of course, you will always be welcomed, My Lady." The steward says with a smile of his own. She stiffens when a gloved hand touches the small of her back; non-magic collides with magic. She inhales through her nose as the steward guides her down the opulent hallway towards the windowless lobby. Harmless as his touch is, it tests the fragile material of the illusion and El'una forces herself to remain smiling as she silently deepens her connection to the Fade.

At one point as they are nearing the end of her stroll, the raised heel of one of her boots (which she despises,) catches on the lip of a stone tile and she nearly falls apart. She takes the opportunity during her recovery from the trip to physically make a grab at the magic she can feel in the air. Her fingers swim through the invisible substance and she clumsily sweeps her hand towards her chest, outwardly appearing to clutch herself in shock but in reality, she is tangibly manipulating the ever-present and ancient magic that lives everywhere. She thinks she's managed to hold reins on the illusion, but she is quite sure she faltered slightly. She sees confusion ghost over the face of the steward and she reacts quickly.

"My word!" She declares, "My most sincere apologies, ser. I… I saw something flit across the sun. Did you see it too? Everything became so dark for an instant and I'm afraid it gave me a fright! I have heard of dragons in Nevarra..."

"Yes." The steward said, still looking rather disturbed. "I thought I saw… something. Very ah… strange…" He trails off lamely and is now glancing around the raised lobby, eyes scanning the ceiling for an answer.

Not wanting to wait around for the steward to have anymore time to think about the dark haired elf that had flitted instantaneously in and out of existence before his eyes, El'una clears her throat and pushes on towards the open doors of the inn where she can see Dorian's carriage waiting outside.

She reaches down the front of her dress after the steward assists her into the vehicle and withdraws a gold coin.

"My deepest gratitude to you and your staff." She says, pressing the coin into the man's hand.

"You're… you're very welcome, Lady Trevelyan." He says, closing his fingers around the gold piece, still looking rather bemused. "Ah! Yes. Your staff!" He jumps slightly, and hastily passes it to her remembering that he offered to hold it as she made herself comfortable in her seat. "So sorry!"

"No harm done." She smiles, though she is having sincere doubts about what effect the entire spectacle has had on this man's state of mind. She jumps now as a hand clasps the man's shoulder from behind and he nearly leaps out of his jerkin.

"All hands on deck, man." Dorian says amicably.

"Magister Pavus!" The steward gasps, now physically clutching at his heart. "I hope you take no affront at my decorum. I think I have… taken ill." He explains, clearly scrambling for some excuse for the very odd day that has leapt out at him.

Dorian raises an eyebrow at the steward. "None taken. I can see you work hard. Best take care of yourself." He gives the steward a wink and tosses him a gold coin as well before clambering into the carriage next to El'una. "Good day to you. Thanks again. Please bill the Magisterium for our stay!" He reaches across El'una's lap and pulls the carriage door shut. He taps the roof of the carriage with the butt of his staff and the wheels lurch into motion.

It is a good five minutes until he speaks; he spends the initial part of their journey shuffling a stack of papers around, organizing them and swapping them with one another before he finally sits back and stuffs them in the pocket down the front of his robes.

"Now," he begins. "What in the name of Andraste's flabby thighs did you do to that man? I might be wrong, but I distinctly caught a whiff of urine on the morning breeze."

El'una felt colour rise in her cheeks. "I… I slipped. He touched my back and in an effort to maintain the glamour I tripped over a tile and I think… I think the illusion fell apart for a moment. I managed to recover not a second later, but I think he caught a blinks-worth of a glimpse of someone who was definitely not a Trevelyan. Or human." She groans and lets her head fall back; it hits the wall of the carriage with a dull thud. "I could have ruined everything. Over what? A fucking servant?" She hisses in annoyance.

Dorian shrugs. "I wouldn't fret over it, El'una. He's well paid and aside from that, well treated. He has no reason to betray you."

El'una feels herself glaring and she tries to take solace in his words but finds herself unable to: Solas has spies everywhere. In a matter of years he amassed a network of spies to rival Leliana's own, and there was no way of knowing that he didn't have humans on his payroll too. Her stomach feels upset; a side effect from indulging in so much of that dark drink earlier, she supposes.

"I made a huge mistake. We're not even in the Imperium yet and I've already blown my cover once." Her hands shake and her tongue feels dry as panic sets in: Have I damned myself from the start? She wonders.

Dorian tsks, still calm. Still relaxed.

"Well what would you propose we do about it? Turn around, go back and kill the man in broad daylight because he may become a threat to your secrecy? A steep price that is not worth the trouble. Or bloodshed."

"You're right." El'una sighs, staring out the window of the carriage as it spirits them northwards. "I'll never see him again. It'll be fine." She turns her gaze to Dorian and treats him with a genuine smile. "Thank you, Dorian."

"You can always count on me to have the best advice." He reminds her, moving to the bench a few paces away, against the wall. He stretches out on it and an arm dangles off the edge of it, trailing onto the floor. "If you'll excuse me, now. I've been wearing a disguise of my own this morning: I have an incessant headache from all the wine last night. I intend to sleep for the foreseeable future."

"Of course." El'una smiles indulgently and returns to staring out the window until she can hear Dorian snoring softly. She takes a few quiet steps closer to him and peers at him from above for a few moments so that she can be sure he's really asleep. When she's satisfied that he is, she inches towards the small drawing table in the corner and stealthily withdraws a sheet of parchment from the drawer.

Leliana, she scribes in her characteristically narrow, gangly scrawl. Steward at the Caspinain Springs Inn in Nevarra. I believe he caught a glimpse of me.

He is a risk I cannot allow, though I have no doubt of his good nature.

Accident

Disappearance.

Satisfied with the brevity of the order but not with the nature of the order itself, she stashes the quill and inkwell and ties the scroll to the ankle of the raven sitting in a cage next to the desk.

"Shhh." She implores, as it flaps quietly at her intrusion into its space. It rasps quietly at her demand but allows her to follow through with her task, hopping obediently onto her outstretched arm when she is complete. She holds a finger up to her lips as she crosses the room as quietly as possible to the window of the carriage. A quick glance over her shoulder confirms that Dorian is still snoozing soundly, and with a hurried movement, she tears the window open and more or less heaves the crow out of it. She winces and hears its angry protests fade into the distance as the carriage continues on and she slams the window shut just as Dorian bolts up from the bench.

"What?!" He snarls, not keen on the manner of his waking.

"Sorry." El'una says still grimacing, though she is seated primly in the same place as before. "Bird cage broke open and the thing crashed against the side of the carriage. I opened the window to let it out, but the wind caught on the glass and made even more noise. Did you sleep well?" She finishes with a question in order to detract from any he might have.

"I did." He said flatly, staring at the empty cage.

El'una coughs lightly.

There is blood behind her smile.


	12. Chapter 12

"You're what?" Dorian hisses through clenched teeth.

"Dying." She repeats with a level of calm she had not thought herself capable of: This is the first time she's verbalized the suspicion that had been nagging her for days. Grateful for the hue of the dress she's wearing, she wipes her chin with the sleeve. "I'm pretty sure, yeah."

"How?" Dorian demands incredulously; she smiles wryly. Dorian is dry and aloof, but when he truly cares about something, he has a fiery temper: It is plain to her that she has set a spark to it with her admission. Well… that and the considerable amount of blood that had oozed from between her teeth and dribbled down her chin when she smiled at him moments earlier.

That was when he demanded to know what the fuck was going on.

"I'm ill." She says. "'We don't all get run through with swords or fall in a blaze of glory so that we may be forever revered as heroes - We get sick; we die. Is it really that surprising?" She laughs blackly at her words: She would love nothing more than to sob at the truths that leave her mouth: It feels like a massive and inappropriate disconnect exists between how she's fronting this information and how it really makes her feel. In a way it's extremely liberating to finally accept that which she has suspected for a time.

Dorian shoots to his feet and begins angrily pacing the carriage, raking both his hands through his perfectly coiffed hair. "You've not even seen a healer!" He points out. "How can you be so sure that you aren't just a bit under the weather?"

She regards him kindly, her heart hurting for the fact that there is little Dorian can do other than fret. "I'm coughing up blood, Dorian." She says gently. "Not in small quantities either; it's fresh and bright. My chest feels as though it's in a vice much of the time. I…" She trails off and forces her gaze to the window that she had shoved a death-order through not five minutes earlier. "I've seen this illness in places I've visited, and I'm sure you have too: It runs rampant in slums and alienages where poverty dominates. And… I've not ever seen anyone recover once they get this sick."

"Then how did you get it?" He asks, and she fears that if he grits his teeth any harder, they'll shatter. "Last time I checked, Skyhold wasn't a filthy slum."

She sighs now and busies her hands with removing her lace gloves. "I've heard of this illness laying dormant in a person for years at a time before it becomes active: That's why it's such a threat to large populations in close quarters: Man loses his whole family to the illness and in his grief he packs up and moves to a village fifty leagues away to start anew… one day, he starts experiencing the same shortness of breath and bloody coughing that his wife had. Before he realizes that this disease is the same that wiped out his family, he's already spread it to half of the village." Her bare fingers reach into a pocket at the waist of her dress. "On the topic of accidentally killing those you care about…" She tosses a small vial filled with opalescent green fluid at Dorian, who catches it and examines it against the light but takes a step forward, his mouth opening angrily.

"Oh no. I'm not playing into your trap. "Let's throw Dorian a shiny bauble and distract him from the topic at hand." Not a chance. First, you tell me why you're insisting on continuing with this crusade if you're dying!"

"Would you have me spend my last days on a comfortable feather mattress somewhere?" She retorts, her own voice rising now as she sits forward. "Because dying alone in a bed while the clock ticks on a world that will suffer more than I ever will seems fucking unappealing to me!" She says, not backing down under the heat of his displeasure. "I can at least keep going until I physically can't draw breath. I owe that to this world, don't you think? Besides, we can't very well have Solas catching on to the fact that the only person capable of stopping him is dying of a common disease."

Dorian utters a frustrated groan, wiping a hand over his face, clearly done with the subject. El'una hopes that he understands: She won't get better, but she won't go off and quietly die in a corner somewhere either. Solas' Veil may be the cause of her mortality, but she would not die lamenting its consequence. "This is…?" He demands, holding up the vial.

"Choke." She answers, leaning back and crossing her legs at the ankles.

"That was uncalled for." Dorian glares.

"That's what it's called." She explains. "It's a Dalish tincture that my clan used to make good money off of in larger cities. If you've been exposed to the city illness but haven't started exhibiting symptoms, you can imbibe it and it will render any latent presence of the disease harmless, so long as you take it as soon as you can after exposure." She notes Dorian's firm stare, "Meaning I'm out of luck, my friend. That won't do me any good. Best if you take it."

"Choke?" He says, glowering at the vial, outwardly cooled but still pouring off waves of contained anger into the carriage. "You lot couldn't have come up with a less repulsive name for it?"

She giggles then. "In elven it's known as sahtla… which means choke."

"Again, the question begs to be answered; why?"

"Because it tastes like death." She notes with a joyless smile. "It'll prevent you from catching the city illness, but it'll also be the worst tasting thing you've ever put in your mouth."

Dorian turns the vial in his fingers and hums quietly as he examines the milky green substance within. "What is it made from?"

"A decoction of materials that are both expensive to purchase and difficult to come by in the wild: Clan Lavellan's worst kept secret."

"Hence why this is not a widely known therapy for a disease that kills thousands each year." Dorian notes, his left eyebrow inching up his forehead. "People in cities would be clamouring over themselves to have this. You could save countless lives with this." There is a hint of challenge to his statement and El'una knows that he is not impressed by the fact that clan Lavellan has not made this treatment a mass-produced salvation for many.

"Yes… well. The humanitarianism is noble in sentiment, but there are only so many in clan Lavellan, and Dalish stubbornness has prevented the greater good from being served in more ways than this." She stretches out across the bench now, swinging her feet up and crossing one leg over the other as she begins pulling a forget-me-not into existence. "Use Choke to help those we can in the cities and towns we visit? Sure. Those who can afford it. The people who could afford to purchase our small stocks were typically Chantry sisters or healers; people who worked directly with the destitute but had the money behind their cause that would protect them. Find a way to mass-produce enough of the tincture to provide to an entire city so that the disease may be wiped out indefinitely?" She shakes her head, bitter at the truth that she had once fully bought into; as guilty as any of the rest of the clan. "That would require contracting enough materials and people to produce so much. Needing other people requires trusting them and passing on the recipe for the tincture, giving them an opportunity to betray us: "Dalish knowledge must remain with the Dalish," was the commonly repeated line." She lays the pristine forget-me-not in her lap and begins weaving another without pause, enjoying the absent-minded distraction that creation magic entails. "So when demand became too high, we stopped selling it. Kept the formula only for ourselves in the event we ever visited an area where the city illness flourished."

"Let me guess," Dorian began, sitting once again on his own bench and sinking back into the plush velvet material. "You find yourself in your predicament today because you ventured into one of these said places and met some sad little urchin who stole your heart and inclined you to sacrifice your last vial of Choke for his benefit rather than your own longevity?"

Evelyn Trevelyan stares across the carriage at Dorian like he's simple.

"No." She remarks, her nose wrinkling slightly, "Come, Dorian. You know me better than that: While I wish I could tell you a brave and heroic tale about how I surrendered my very last vial of Choke to someone who needed it more than myself, that would be an outrageous lie and would do very little to paint over the truth of the matter which is that... I forgot it. I was seperated from my clan in a quarantined city for over a fortnight and by the time I got past the city walls the window of time that would have allowed me to sidestep contamination had already closed. That was… oh over five years ago now. I thought I'd been lucky enough to avoid the disease, but… apparently not."

"You mean to tell me that you are going to die in the foreseeable future; a messy and unpleasant death at that; because you forgot to make sure you had your miracle potion on hand before you went into a city and caroused with a pile of sick orphans?"

"Don't redden your face on my behalf." She says snidely. "Like I said before: Not all deaths are heroic and not all of us fall on swords. Imagine my surprise when people started calling me Herald of Andraste and proclaiming that I was the fated elf poised to save the world: I've no business with lofty titles like that. Or maybe I do. Morons can be heroes, I suppose…" She trails off and bursts into a bout of laughter mostly because she feels like it's the only thing she can do right now: She always has confronted fear with joy; a reaction that has time and time again proved disconcerting by those around her. El'una fondly remembers Cassandra looking like she would love nothing more than to smack her with the flat of her sword when she toppled over in a giggle fit at the sight of the first dragon she fought.

"I'm still furious with you." He reminds her sternly. "How long did you plan on keeping this little secret to yourself?"

El'una balks; she honestly doesn't have an answer for that. On one hand, she thought she might tell him to tell him once they arrived at Minrathous; it was after all a densely populated area, and she'd be loathe to leave death in her trail. On the other hand, it occurred to her to not tell him at all; trick him into taking the Choke, and flee from the oppressive capital of the Imperium at the first opportunity that presented itself: She is very aware that she is living on borrowed time, and delicately using Evelyn Trevelyan's status to manipulate the Magisterium will require patience that she no longer has given her current condition - she knows she could be dead within a month; there is no time for planning and plotting.

"I… I'm sorry Dorian. I should have told you sooner. It would have become clear enough eventually despite my efforts. It was a bit foolish of me to try and hide it. I thought I would tell you once we arrive in the Imperium. We'll have to come up with a way to keep me from getting everyone around your estate sick." There is a small pile of forget-me-nots heaped on the fine red fabric of her gown now; she's only just realized she made so many.

"And how do you propose doing this?" He asks, waving the vial of Choke at her. "You've already mentioned that this is rather tricky to make."

"Well," she says, staring at the splash of flowers on her lap, "I suppose it wouldn't be too much of a stretch to assume that I could compose the ingredients myself, and I'll need an alchemy station at my disposal once we reach your estate. Give me some time and I should be able to create a large enough batch to cover your people… and more."

"Your altruism is remarkable," Dorian quips, "but do you really have the time to sit in a dark room concocting tinctures?"

El'una shrugs and focuses on her hand where something brown and slimy is twisting and materializing. "In exchange for your hospitality and the space to work, I'll leave the recipe with you. Put it to use however you wish when I'm gone. I refuse to occupy your space and cause a plague within Minrathous. Besides… if my clan refuses to do something good with this, perhaps you can. I'm sure the city illness is as common in Tevinter as it is in the rest of Thedas." The pungent odour of the root hits her nose; there we go… that seems right. She holds the freshly created plant-matter out to Dorian. "It'll be quite simple once I have all the materials. The hardest to come by is this; slickwyrm vine. Spent a third of my childhood sloughing through dangerous bogs looking for this stinky weed."

Dorian's gaze moves from the disgusting pile of vines in El'una's hand to the pale green and relatively harmless looking tincture in his hand. "That goes into this?" He asks, his nose wrinkling. "It smells like rotting flesh."

El'una nods. "Tastes like it too." She mentions. "The formula calls for star anise to cancel out some of the flavour, but there's no avoiding it completely." Her eyes drift to the vial still clenched in his palm. "Well? Bottom's up. I already explained to you that time is of the essence with Choke."

Dorian looks hesitant and El'una understands why; he's never been someone to willingly indulge in something that he knows will not taste amazing. Understanding this, she sets her feet on the floor and stands, a cascade of flowers skimming down the front of her skirt and onto the ground.

"Allow me to have some wine ready for you." She offers, crossing the carriage to the small but amply stocked bar set into the wall. "You must keep it down, no matter how bad it tastes. It won't upset your stomach due to the elfroot and ginger, but the taste might incline you to be sick anyway."

"I can barely contain my excitement." Dorian sighs, uncorking the vial as El'una uncorks a bottle of Antivan red. She pours a goblet for each of them and collects them (being very careful with the one in her left hand.)

"Don't say I never did anything for you." She smirks as he accepts the wine from her fingers. "What shall we drink to?"

He considers her for a moment and the carriage seems to go very quiet: It's all out in the open now and there are no more secrets between them. She's admitted to not only herself, but to her best friend that she's not long for this world and despite the urgency of her current task it seems appropriate that in this moment they are both standing still and silent, awash in the reality of the situation.

"Please pick something to drink to before I start crying." She says, breaking the silence when her eyes begin to prickle.

Dorian regards her for one moment more, his mouth set in a firm line as he raises his vial.

"To your good health and rich life." He says solemnly, tapping her goblet with the vial before tilting the Choke to his lips and tossing his head back and emptying it before quickly taking a long swallow of wine to chase it.

El'una drains her goblet in a single go.

No point in giving up hope just yet. No point in dying old in bed.

Might as well get shitfaced in the meantime.

* * *

She falls asleep after she and Dorian have polished off the Antivan red and then another. They play cards into the evening and enjoy each other's company despite the concern that Dorian fails to mask every time her breath falls short or pain crosses her face.

She realizes that she wouldn't have it any other way: To be able to present that vulnerability; to lay bare the fact that she is going to die soon somehow enriches every happy moment that passes: Each grin, each bawdy joke or song sung in drunken bravado seems to carry so much more weight than they did previously… they feel like more. They mean more.

Her dreams however, hold a notably different tone despite being vague, fuzzy constructs of inebriation. There are fleeting and insubstantial moments of bright, bright white and she there appears to be someone else with her on what she can only assume is a bed. Might be a unicorn or a cloud. Everything is so distorted here. Distorted but… good. Her heart races in a way it hasn't in months and she feels powerful and whole.

She has a left arm in this dream.

She glances over her shoulder and yes, someone is definitely on this brilliant white surface with her but who? Their face is indiscernible and she wonders why this person - who for all other appearances is sleeping - is sharing this space where things feel so simple and amazing.

I want them to wake up.

She reaches over and the living fingers of her left hand dance cautiously over their ankle; a test. One failed: The figure does not stir from their slumber and she finds herself overwhelmed with the desire to wake them: There's so much that they are missing. If she could only wake them, then they could see too.

She scoots up the white, close enough to the figure that she can rock onto her knees, grip their shoulder and give them an exploratory shake.

They continue to sleep, or lay, or whatever it is they're doing, and she lets out a huff of air: Can't they see? She can't explain how good it feels here. It just needs to… be.

She sits back on her heels and thinks, finding it difficult to arrange clear thought in this bright and insubstantial place. The eyes of whoever is next to her stare blankly into space and she grits her teeth at the inclination to just make them… feel.

A glimpse of colour catches her eye and she lifts wispy hands to see that her fingers and palms are somehow bright and shining red. Her ears ring as discomfort and confusion start battling the euphoria and she looks around to see that much off the white is now also covered in red.

Dripping even.

She reaches down to the indistinguishable person that lays at her knees and realizes with horror that they are red now too. She clutches at their front and the red squishes between her fingers.

She shakes them gently and they do not move. Verging on panic, she runs her red right hand over her face and into her hair, leaving cold, sticky tracks behind. She doesn't know who this is or what is happening, but she's becoming more and more intimate with the knowledge that they are not asleep.

Did I do this? Did I…? When?

She beats their chest with her hands and red flies into the air, splattering her face. They don't move or stir and she puts her face close to theirs and shouts.

Nothing.

Despite the very real terror this dream is becoming, she still can't help but feel an overwhelming sensation of accomplishment and pride despite all the red and the probably dead person sharing her space. More upset by the fact that they are missing out than the probability that they are dead, she collapses on the red and white next to them and entreats the still form for an answer.

"Why don't you feel? How can you not feel? Why won't you move?" She stares longingly at the face that belongs to no one in particular and says, "I just… I just can't explain how good it feels."

This justification does little to stem the red that now dominates the white and El'una is more or less awash in it.

Curiously this does not bother her in the slightest - her primary source of irritation and concern is the prone figure she is curled around and as she basks in the warm touch of the red. It's just… nice.

She sighs and flips over, laying on her back as she stares at the white above her.

"I would kill to make you feel." She claims exasperatedly to her silent companion.

You're really not the killing type.

Her head snaps sideways; had they finally spoken?

Unease grows; blank eyes continue to stare into space.


	13. Chapter 13

The carriage jerks to a halt and she is awakened, emitting a small cry of shock as she crashes off the bench, onto the floor. Mind still reeling, she pushes herself up with a groan.

"Dorian." She whispers into the darkness; the hour is late and the candles must have burned away as the pair of them slipped into a drunken sleep. "Dorian, why have we stopped?" She receives no answer apart from Dorian's soft snores: He's still out. "Dorian." She repeats, getting to her feet and inching closer to the source of his breathing.

She staggers forward suddenly and is nearly thrown off of her feet when the carriage lurches forward. Bottles and vials rattle in their shelves, and there is a loud thud on the ceiling of the carriage - presumably one made by a boot - followed by a brief scuffle.

"Come on out here, then!" Comes the muffled demand, apparently from the stomper. "Got you surrounded. Got a blade pressed to your man's neck. Best start makin' moves 'fore I decide an' bleed 'im!"

Highwaymen.

Wonderful.

She stares around in the darkness and swears softly as she works out her next step; Dorian is fast asleep, and knowing him well enough to understand how he functions immediately after waking, she knows it won't do her any good to rouse him anyway - she's in this alone. Deciding quickly, she takes quick inventory of her illusion and deems it acceptable before sweeping her staff into her hand, ignoring the pervasive prickle of the unhappy instrument.

Carefully, she peers out the window set in the door of the carriage, and though it is dark, the moon lends just enough light to see the forms of at least half a dozen mounted riders encircling this side of the vehicle - there are likely more on the other side.

"Do not harm the driver." She says through the door, making herself known. "I'm coming out."

Cautiously, slowly, so as not to alarm the criminals, she pushes open the door and hops onto the ground, being mindful to hold her staff aloft in a gesture of truce as she turns around to face the bandit standing on the roof.

"Let him free." She commands, eyes flicking to the trembling man held fast by the bandit.

His grip does not loosen, nor does the blade at the innocent man's throat move.

"Uh-uh." Says the bandit, shaking his head. He pulls the knife away from the driver's neck for only a moment, to point it at her, "Not till' you drop that staff."

No use arguing; he might have asked an armed knight to drop his dining utensils, for all the staff matters.

"Of course." She concedes politely, extending her arm and dropping the staff far enough away that there is no chance of her reaching it. "Now let him free." She repeats, clinging to the sliver of hope that entreats her to believe they have a chance of getting out of this without bloodshed; as far as they know, she is traveling with only this man as her company.

"You alone in there?" The bandit snaps, stomping his foot on the roof again as if El'una had forgotten what they were talking about.

"Of course." She answers.

"You ain't from the Imperium." The bandit observes, squinting down his nose at her through the dark. "Too fair."

"Correct, ser. I'm from the Marches, passing through to visit my dear cousin in the Magisterium." She explains, deliberately relating herself to a Magister in the hope that it would give this company pause.

Not likely.

She notes the man's pointed ears for the first time, and in the insubstantial light she can just make out what appears to be a brand on the left side of his exposed neck. This close to the walls of Minrathous, it becomes clear to her that these highwaymen are escaped slaves.

Her heart twinges.

"Will you release my driver now?" She asks coolly, keeping tabs on the bandit who is circling behind her on foot.

The lead man tilts his head, cracks his neck, shifts around and wiggles the toes of his boots as he considers.

"Nah." He whispers into the night, and the silver blade is pulled across the driver's throat.

El'una gasps and takes a step forward, but says nothing as the poor man's body slumps wetly onto the roof. She tries to ignore the heinous gasping sounds he makes as his blood pools and spurts.

"Search the cart!" The lead man cries to his company before turning his stare back on El'una. "Wanna be sure the shem is telling the truth before I get started."

There is a greasy and depraved quality to his gaze, and El'una bites her lip to stop her retort as two hands wrap around the tops of her arms. Instead, she whips her head to face the bandit that is approaching the carriage door, where Dorian sleeps only feet away.

"I would not do that." She warns.

The bandit halts.

Good.

"Shut it, you rich slag!" The lead man barks from up top. Her face whirls to meet his stare once again. "Tell ya what; first we're gonna rob you blind, and then, I'm gonna fuck you bloody. In the meantime, you're going to stay good an' hush, aye?"

Her ears rush with blood and her face feels warm. She manages to award herself another step forward despite the strong grip of the individual holding her.

"Bad things have happened to you in your lifetime, da'len, but that does not excuse you to -" She is cut off by a sharp whack to the side of her head from the bandit holding her. Her ears ring and indignant fury comes to her easily. Without a thought spared, she wheels around to face the one who harmed her.

"That was not wise." She remarks, meeting his eyes in the fleeting instant before they begin to bubble and smoke within their sockets. Fingers loosen from her arms, and the bandit staggers backwards, clutching at his ruined face as his moans gain strength and rapidly evolve into screams.

"Kill the bitch!" The bandit on the roof bellows, drawing his sword.

El'una is looking around her, surveying what she is up against and internally planning which steps to take in order to ensure complete annihilation of the threat. The precise moment that shadows start moving towards her in the dark, the carriage door bursts open to reveal a very dishevelled looking Magister, who despite the wayward locks of hair pointing in every direction, is holding his staff, and looks incredibly ready to fight.

"What the fuck is going on?!" He hollers, and El'una decides in that instant that he would do better to stay inside the carriage. A wall of force strong enough to rock the carriage onto two wheels is leveled towards him and the door is ferociously slammed shut. She is relieved and even a bit surprised that the horses do not spook much apart from some upset neighing and rearing.

"Stay put!" She shouts, ducking around a blade that is aimed for her left shoulder. She turns on the spot and seizes the arm wielding the sword while simultaneously lifting a localized barrier to deflect another blow.

The magic comes easily to her, despite this being her first taste of real combat in months. She walks a delicate balance between terrified and utterly exhilarated: Not having the physical heft of a staff in her hands leaves her feeling rather exposed on the battlefield, but as she moves, she appreciates the freedom and range of motion she has without one.

The assailant whose wrist she still grips tightly in her fingers is struggling against her, and she concludes that she has only seconds to decide his fate. Action determined, she grins and roughly shoves the man backwards. His face pulls into an expression of bewilderment when he lifts his blade to launch a counterattack only to see that his sword has been transfigured into a simply splendid bouquet of wildflowers. By the time he is able to remove his eyes from the splendorous splash of botany before him, El'una is holding a blade of her own now, those hers glows faintly and might be translucent.

It is also between his ribs.

She twists it for good measure, watching the light in his eyes dim before she slides him off the blade and turns around in time to volley another set of swings aimed at her.

It is strange, not having the weight of a staff to leverage off the swings of her magical blade, but it not difficult to get back into the easy rhythm of a good blade fight; block, parry, duck - swing.

Eviscerate.

A blade flies towards her shoulder and she steps back, turning slightly and then rocking her weight forward again. Another gust of force accompanies her outstretched hand and her newest foe is blasted off his feet with enough impact that El'una thinks she hears a few of his ribs crack as he is sent skidding away into the darkness.

She breathes deeply, properly now, despite her condition. She's not sure exactly why; perhaps the adrenaline, or perhaps it is because she is so in tune with the magic that surrounds her. A gale that was not there before is ripping at her hair and the fabric of her dress, and she cleanly ducks and weaves between those who would kill her, leaving a circle of corpses around her until there are no more swords to splinter, nor any more skin to melt.

Her bloody dance comes to an end with her facing the bandit on the roof, who apparently could not find it within himself to come to the aid of his kin. She spits out a bit of blood and is unsure if it is hers or somebody else's.

Her sword is raised towards the bandit.

He licks his lips and his throat bobs as he stares at her in what could only be described as raw bewilderment.

"I am sorry this happened to you." She says. The luminescent sword wavers and briefly emits a golden aura before becoming a small knife, identical to the one the bandit owns.

He opens his mouth to respond, but manages to issue only a damp gurgling sound, due to the blade shaped piece of magic that is protruding neatly from his Adam's apple. He keels off the top of the carriage and out of sight and El'una does not stop to examine the details of the bloody scene she has constructed; the scent of death is thick on the air, and the sound of screaming, panicked horses paints a vivid enough picture.

"It's safe now, Dorian." She calls towards the carriage, lifting the hem of her skirt and stepping over bodies until she locates her staff. "We'll have to ride the rest of the way." She announces when she finally sees his head protruding from the door. "You're alright?" She asks, draping the staff over her shoulders and putting some of her hair back into the intricate plait it had slipped from.

"Despite being tossed around inside a carriage while it nearly flips and getting attacked in the dead of night by highwaymen, I appear to be fine." He snaps, hopping out of the carriage and stooping next to the corpse of his driver, whose open neck wound gapes angrily at the sky. "He was a good man." He remarks, his voice sullen. "Fortense was his name…" He reaches out and closes the man's eyes.

"Mhmm." El'una hums. "Can't say I disagree with you. Just can't help but wonder if he had any choice in the matter of his career path. Shame it ended like this." She mutters darkly, crossing to the horses and starting the series of steps it would take to free them from their harnesses. She immediately regrets her words, but makes no apology for them; the escaped slaves wanted to kill her, yes, and in turn she had to preserve herself, but this is more defeating than anything.

"Leave it." Dorian warns, catching on her embittered words.

El'una only shakes her head and walks around the carriage with the reins of one of House Pavus' majestic stallions in hand. She passes them to Dorian with a fleeting glance and says, "There was no joy for me in what I just witnessed. These… corpses," She gestures around, "were slaves. There's no knowing how hard they fought to steal their freedom and how many were lost along the way." For the first time she looks around properly at the slaughter. "I don't imagine they had this in mind when they dreamt of liberation."

Everything feels unbearably heavy for a moment, and for the first time, a disturbing thought pervades the raw determination that has carried her for the past months: What if this world is not worth saving? Perhaps Solas should be allowed to tear down the Veil and purge the world of things of this like.

El'una clenches her jaw, grinds her teeth a little, and hops onto the back of her own stallion, reining in the fidgeting beast as best she can and urging it north. Upon receiving a returned nod from Dorian, she digs her heels into the side of the animal and they speed into the darkness.

Blessedly, the weight of her thoughts are quickly swept away by the roaring wind in her ears.


End file.
